The Power of Blood
by Sresla
Summary: Because Sandor tried to help a friend, he faced imprisonment or death – until the Grey Warden intervened on his behalf. He was alive, free of the Tower. It was enough; all he could hope for. Then he met Zevran Arainai and realized how wrong he'd been...
1. Second Chances

'_A night with the Tiove twins who will screech like the __aos sí __when they learn I do not have the coin to pay them._' Zevran pictured the two women. Both with fine, pale hair long enough to wrap around his fist several times, but their comely faces and buxom figures didn't warm him; he pitched another pebble into the placid pool.

The sun inched downwards in a bright spray of orange and violet, but his black mood persisted. He had tried – unsuccessfully – for the last hour to buoy his spirits with thoughts of his homecoming: the brothels he would visit (until word got around he had unaccountably tithed away the _andris_ the job might have earned him) or Taliesin's outrageous braggadocio while he himself sipped colorless _aguardiente _between bites of chilled, ripe melon and merely nodded agreeably in silent accompaniment to the tale the other man told.

A vehement repetition of the unspoken litany, '_They should have killed me,_' served as a reminder of his sleepless vigil – daggers in hand – tensely awaiting the Wardens' reprisal for his ill-planned ambush. When the morning's commotion finally coerced him to emerge from the tent, his eyes stinging and unwashed skin itching persistently, Zevran found the Warden named Sandor still breaking his fast on a bowl of thick porridge, his dog – no, the Fereldans called them mabari – curled obediently at his feet. The mage's unwavering stare held him mute; the moment felt like minutes stretched to hours, until, distracted by a sound behind him (the qunari, as he disassembled the assassin's now abandoned tent) Zevran looked away. When he turned back, the elf was gone; his dog lapped energetically at his owner's untouched meal.

The Antivan spent the day under oppressively silent observation. The company had not seen a soul, even though theirs was a group to draw curious looks. They passed through cultivated fields with overripe spring wheat and barley going to seed, ignoring the uncanny emptiness as if it were routine. Forgotten rumors of the Crows' _quebrado_ returned with an unpleasant twinge, providing an unwanted parallel to his own situation. '_A cage remains a cage, even when the door is opened._' He groped restlessly for another stone. '_They should have killed me,_' as the rock made a subdued splash into the water. If he ran, the Grey Wardens would be provided with the excuse they needed to cut him down – and he knew if he stayed, he would be killed for his part in Teryn Loghain's plan.

Had it been pastureland, the corobane would have been uprooted long ago – no farmer wanted the poisonous plant around his livestock – but here it grew in great feathery clumps along the roadside. Even with the human Warden's eye on him, with the call of nature as his excuse, it had been a simple thing during the privacy they afforded him to quickly unearth and strip them of their red-streaked stems. They resembled wild carrots and would be unremarkable in the crate of turnips and other vegetables – and he doubted Alistair's ability to discern the hemlock's rank stench from that of a parsnip's. By comparison, given that the potatoes currently topping the bin sprouted questing white tendrils, his clandestine contribution would be welcome and even considered appetizing. He considered it fitting repayment for the Grey Wardens' illusion of clemency.

The flimsy excuse he used for his late afternoon departure was received with the same stony glare of distrust – but the Templar didn't stop him and now, lip curled into an arrogant sneer, the assassin waited impatiently for them to die. '_They should have killed me._'

The surface of the puddle broke; small ripples fanned out from the source and vanished as quickly as they appeared. It was a fish, Zevran saw as he crouched, astonished, peering down: a fish, no longer than the length of his forefinger, darting frantically back and forth. Agitated by his preoccupied fidgeting, the creature alternately mouthed the gravel, only to expel it with equal force, or nudged the stones towards several already established piles within the shallow basin.

It was a curious puzzle; his experience with fish was limited to eating them, but the Antivan knew they did not live in stagnant puddles in the middle of a forest. Were they like cows and sheep that fed on clumps of grass stubbornly taken root underwater? There was nothing like that here. Zevran supposed fish ate insects or… other fish? Did they have teeth? The large no doubt fed on the weak – perhaps this one was the last remaining survivor of a pool once teeming with tiny fry. Its presence might be a mystery, but one thing was true – it would not live for much longer, not with winter on fall's horizon.

He watched it swim. The creature finally calmed, although it still gave narrow berth to the receding shadow he cast. Eventually the fingerling stilled and simply floated, using only the occasional flick of a fin to steadily hold its position.

It was as tranquilly oblivious to its fate as any of his marks had ever been, but nature's cruelty bothered him.

Zevran departed at full dark; he intended to return to Antiva in as much style as the dead men's money would buy him, so the Wardens' camp still needed to be ransacked before he worked his way back to Denerim. The fish, spared its harsh future, floated sideways in the pool; its severed, sightless head seemingly following the assassin's progress until he was out of sight.

He could prowl Antiva City's alleyways blindfolded and still end up at his destination but the forest confounded him. It was the distressed barking that led him – as his own personal sense of direction couldn't – back to the camp. Nominally grateful for its guidance, the dog was a previously forgotten, but now additionally vexatious complication. As he detoured around another clump of low, thorny bushes, Zevran decided the animal might have earned itself a reprieve, if its loyalty outlived its owner. It probably wouldn't allow him near the elven mage's corpse, but extending its protectiveness to guarding against scavengers would just be a matter of centralizing where the bodies were.

The other obvious flaws in his plan grew more apparent the closer he came to the campsite, which was nothing more than a weak yellowish glow through the thick stand of pines in front of him. Travelling at night was out of the question; fumbling around in the dark woodland brought back… distasteful reminders of his time in Laurisilva. If the dog _kept_ barking, it would eventually draw the wrong sort of attention: authorities of some sort, or bandits – and would _certainly_ keep him from a restful night's sleep. He iterated his list again. '_A _caldari_ until my aches are soothed, the _tepidari_ until I am clean, a plate of oysters so fresh they snap closed with the lightest tap, that – a bottle of _fino_ – and the Tiove twins when I return to Antiva City,' _as he vaulted easily over a mossy log, which brought him to the pounded dirt path the group followed to the secluded grove to set up camp. The narrow break in the trees bathed him in welcoming light, but the tableau it illuminated froze him disbelievingly to the spot.

'_Mahdotonta…_'

The sight triggered a wave of self-loathing so chokingly strong he nearly turned and fled back into the forest, but it only took an eye blink to bury the emotion under unruffled nonchalance, while his heart hammered the lie in his chest.

Impossibly, the Grey Wardens lived. Past the haphazardly arranged tents, the overwrought mabari capered eagerly at his master's heels, the two involved in a rowdy rough-and-tumble that left both of them filthy. That Sandor should be playing a _game_ with such carefree abandon… His vision tunneled, the assassin savagely willed the elven Warden to turn and look at him, to _see_ him – _anything_ to provoke this inevitable, final confrontation – when a hand clamped down on his upper arm. He reflexively tried to jerk free of the mailed grip, which only tightened in response.

"Zevran. You're back and you _must_ be hungry. I bet you're _**starving**_."

Alistair half-dragged him the few steps to where Leliana tended the fire and released him with an abrupt shove. The Antivan let nothing of his suppressed tension show on his face, but his muscles trembled in anticipation. '_Soon. Soon we settle this._' He began cataloguing what he might use as makeshift weapons – a handful of dirt and pebbles, a brand from the fire, the fire itself – anything to lend him an unexpected advantage when the fight began.

"Alistair…"

"No, Leliana! His mabari wouldn't _eat_ it! I _know_–"

'_The dog. Of course, the dog._' The mental image of Alistair, extending the wooden spoon for the animal to sample as he stirred the group's supper nauseated him, for more than just the obvious reason. Such an amateurish mistake would have killed him in Antiva. The Crows were unforgiving of incompetence in their ranks.

"Lower your voice or Sandor will hear you! We agreed–" the woman warned with a significant tilt of her head.

"_You_ agreed. _I_ can always apologize afterwards." Over Leliana's squawked protest, Alistair ended the argument by drawing his sword. He pointed it at Zevran's midsection and spoke with forced casualness belied by his grim, narrow-eyed stare. "Don't worry; I _made sure_ to save you some stew." The blade dipped marginally, indicating a bowl on the ground filled with a thick, brownish mixture, a layer of grease congealed into a cream-colored crust around its edge.

Zevran was cornered. "Ah… no. Thank you my friend, but no." he temporized smoothly. "Perhaps in time I will grow more accustomed to your cooking but I find the fortifying fare you served us this morning has, for the time being, sated my appetite in regards to sampling any more Fereldan cuisine." The assassin took a barely perceptible step backwards.

Alistair's lips narrowed to an angry slit at the glib response. "No? But it's a shame to let it go to waste." The Templar took a step forward to match the one the assassin had taken in subtle retreat, his sword once again pointing at the elf. "Really. I _insist_."

He should never have lingered to try and salvage his reputation, should have fled when he had the chance, should have taken Taliesin's aid when he offered it, never bid for the contract and maybe he should have believed… The regrets scurried through Zevran's mind like ruby-eyed sewer rats.

His exhaustion nagged remorselessly at him, along with a sudden, pervasive longing that this – all of this – be over and done with, finished beyond his capacity to care about the outcome. '_There is yet a third option,_' a sly, inner voice wheedled. With a single bite, he would give everyone irrefutable proof he was what they all believed him to be: a treacherous liar, a worthless failure. His legacy to the Crows: to serve as a warning to those whose egos outstripped their skills in the macabre description of the slow, muscle weakening tremors, dimming vision and violent convulsions he suffered before he died, paralyzed and unable to breathe. Zevran stooped and stirred the stew with his finger, studying it with a scholar's intensity before finally plucking out a blanched orange slice. Valle di Cadore's cruelly mocking laughter echoed bitterly in his memory as he looked from Alistair to the red-haired woman. Leliana's pledged belief in his probable innocence was empty; she watched his movements as intently as the human Warden with no further mention of–

The thought dawned slowly, battering its way into his consciousness, although the intense surge of indefinable emotion that came with it flickered away as he tried to grasp it.

–summoning the mage to intervene, again, on his behalf. Zevran stood, lifting the root to his lips, going through the motions of chewing and swallowing. "There, you see, Grey Warden? Perfectly–"

Face contorted, the Antivan doubled over, his body shaking. Uncertainty flickered across Alistair's features, but before he could act, the elf straightened and with an easy chuckle, eeled out of reach of the other's blade.

"I have passed your test, no?" The poisoned offering was gripped tightly, deftly palmed and ready to be cast into the fire as soon as the humans' backs were turned. "The only harm that comes will be in what you choose to do to me now, Grey Warden."

The two stared at one another. It was Alistair who gave way, lashing out at the bowl with a furious kick that sent it flying. Liquid spattered against the tents; chunks of meat and vegetables oozed down the material, leaving behind glistening brown slug trails of gravy. With enough force to push his sword through its scabbard, the Templar sheathed his weapon and stalked past Zevran, his eyes reflecting yellow-orange flames as he passed, shouldering the elf roughly aside.

"It would be wiser not to make an enemy of him."

The woman's hand covered his clenched fist, a tentative touch. Zevran felt the first prickles of a cold sweat break out along his ribcage. He made a conscious effort not to pull away. "Sweet lady, even with my extensive and varied skillset, I cannot unmake what he already is."

"If that were true, he'd have killed you."

"Would he have indeed?"

"If you think–"

"So I am to believe I have simply been forgiven my part in the ambush that nearly claimed the lives of Ferelden's remaining Grey Wardens? That we will now travel about the countryside, the best of friends?" He scoffed. "I have faith in my friends, well enough. Faith that they will one day stab me in my back."

Leliana's hand tightened around his. The assassin felt the softened hemlock turn pulpy in his grip. "I know it's difficult for you to trust us, but–"

He let her talk, but only half-listened as she regurgitated what she knew about the Crows, as if her knowledge of their widespread propaganda forged a bond between the two of them and elevated her to the role of mediator between himself and the Wardens whose cause she now championed.

Instead, he gazed at a point just over her shoulder. The mabari had managed to wrestle Sandor to the ground. The animal held his wrist in its mouth and the two made a comical sight – every attempt the elven Warden made to stand was counterbalanced by the mabari's size and superior leverage.

Leliana's ongoing commentary recaptured his attention, startling him to harsh, unexpected laughter. "Truly?" He jerked his head in the direction of the mage. "You do not think he would himself jump at the chance to repay me for my duplicity? But perhaps that is what you mean by _upset_."

"Oh Zevran… I wish I could make you understand."

"Is it so very complicated?" The assassin's patience was abruptly at an end; the adrenaline sustaining him was beginning to ebb. "There are seven within shouting distance who would _happily_ see me **dead**."

He had worked the tally of humans, dwarves and the qunari in his head and she confronted it with an innocent smile. "Seven?"

"I do not count the _dog_." he snapped back instantly.

The angry heat of his voice scalded her and she drew back, away from him, repulsed by the spiteful barb. Then her jaw firmed and she shot back, "Is your life in Antiva so worth going back to, if you succeed on your mission? Or is your life worth so little to you that you don't care if you fail?"

He gaped, open-mouthed, and groped for an appropriately snide remark, but she didn't allow him the satisfaction of having the last word, striding past and out into the black woods, her face shuttered of outward emotion, unlike Alistair's open scorn.

With no one left to vent his frustration on, Zevran hurled the crushed root into the fire. '_A night with the Tiove twins, a feast of _maruca _and _orujo _for everyone, even those who doubted me…_' but then as now, there was no joy accompanying the thoughts.

He glanced over at Sandor, who in the interim had regained his feet. Their game appeared to be winding down and he watched the other elf run a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his good eye. It left behind a muddy palm print that darkened his forehead and bled into his hairline like an accidental inkblot. The mabari stood sentinel on the mage's blind, bandaged side and after a further attempt at ineffective personal grooming, the two also retreated into the forest.

'_I survive._' More than he wanted when he came to Ferelden. More than he would have believed two days ago. More than he hoped for yesterday.

He could dismiss what Leliana had said – call them all a bunch of naïve fools for allowing an assassin in their midst – but everything came back to the blurted promise. Made under duress, certainly; a lie then and obviously a lie now. '_Why did I swear such an oath in the first place?_' The hollow vow saved his life, for the hour or two he thought he needed to execute an escape, fulfilling his contract in the process. Yet here he still was, two days later: his clumsy plan thwarted by an animal's sensitivities and three opportunities squandered by remaining, now, in camp. '_Why, why, why, why…_'

Smoke rose. It curled, twisted and dissipated – a ghostly breath enumerating all possible outcomes of this one, unexpected, impossible choice.

Learn.

Ignore.

Succeed.

Fail.

Despair.

Hope.

Flee.

Stay.

Trust.

Betray.

He stared into the fire; its flames slithered over the dry wood, cross-hatching the bottommost log with ochre lines, bright against its charred brown surface. Stared until he knew he'd be night blind, with unfamiliar sounds settling into his consciousness, registering as normal, but all still foreign to him: wind and leaf and bird and squirrel, with rustles and chirps and an eerie but gentle _shush shush_ as if the world itself pled for quiet.

'_Why…'_ He felt the weight lift from his shoulders, cast away like he'd discarded the poison hemlock, replaced by a comfortable, self-assured smile. '_Well, why not?_'

* * *

Author's Note: Second Chances is one of the first things I wrote for Dragon Age: Origins, back before The Power of Blood began to take shape in my head. I don't know if I'd say it's vastly different from the original, but how about only remotely resembles? This story is based on a piece of dialogue that only female Wardens (female Cousland Wardens?) get regarding a second attempt on the Warden's life. David Gaider has said that it was originally intended for Zevran to try to kill the Warden three times (ambush, 2nd time, Taliesin confrontation) but it seemed to stretch the Warden's goodwill to allow him so many second chances (hence my clever title), so the middle one was cut – but that sliver of dialogue was never pulled. That Zevran _would_ try immediately after the ambush never seemed unreasonable to me. This is the result. Thankfully, Perro knows what's best for everyone, and no one was harmed in the making of this stew.

I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).


	2. Broach

'_Walking,_' Zevran decided as the road stretched out in front of him, the packed earth a solid river of dry dust and dirt. Only if the group were _very_ lucky would they have a chance to wash off the daily accumulation of grime before they ate and bedded down for the night. '_Walking,' _he added to his mental tally,_ 'cassava, __zanjabil__ and women who do not laugh at my jokes._' All things he had grown to dislike over the course of his life, with the former and latter thrown into sharp relief as they trudged along.

It wasn't the physical exertion that bothered him; Zevran was in excellent shape so outside blisters the first few days, he did not mind the effort. It was the tedium of travel. In all the tales he knew, none of them mentioned what a hero did between the adventuring, fighting and wenching – and now he knew why.

The scenic vistas the company encountered paled after the second day; the Antivan was used to life in the city and had little care for the wonders of nature and the outdoors. Worst of all was the quiet. Zevran missed the day-to-day bustle of his home and with every mile they travelled, his return went from unlikely to impossible. He did not like to dwell on it, but there was little else to occupy his mind. '_If I do not go mad in the three weeks it takes to reach the dwarven capital, it will be the Maker's small mercy._' The three-week estimate wasn't even on the generous side; it didn't take into account any number of random factors that could delay them.

Having no other way to fill the silence and stave off boredom, he tried making conversation. His attempts to ingratiate himself with his fellow adventurers over the last few days met with varying degrees of success: unable to confirm their conjecture, Leliana and Alistair seemed to be warming to him; the human Warden reluctantly followed the instincts of his elven counterpart and the red-haired initiate. The mabari, in an exhibition of uncharacteristically feline behavior, gravitated to him – as if it sensed Zevran was the one person in their small band who wanted nothing to do with it. The qunari's demeanor did not encourage familiarity, which left the two mages.

Given how the other elf avoided him, probably already regretting his offer of asylum, he tried instead to endear himself to Morrigan – difficult given his misstep upon meeting her the first day. After his failed ambush and subsequent capture (or was it surrender), the assassin, two Wardens, Leliana and the dog made their way back to the mired cart and he asked Alistair what sort of arrangement they had with the prostitute who attended them. The look he received – one he would have recognized if he had not at the time been pre-occupied with his own plight and envisioning a way to detract himself from it – should have indicated how wrong his information about the Grey Wardens' group was. "Oh, Morrigan is going to _**love**_ you."

In retrospect, the apostate's reaction to his inquiry could have been worse; she _could_ have killed him. Thinking of Sandor's pained expression now, as he stood patiently through Morrigan's tirade afterward, Zevran felt a stab of guilt over his part in being a multiplier to the other elf's problems. He had not been reprimanded; it was a safe enough assumption he would not make the same mistake twice in regards to the Chasind woman, but by that same token, there was no reason she might not come to his bed willingly. '_A scenario as likely as my being forgiven my failure by the Crows and being allowed to return to Antiva City,_' given how she was looking at him now. He sighed; it was for the best – the more time he spent in her presence, the less attractive she became.

The trees they passed looked so alike that he wondered if they were going in circles and the road's straightness was an illusion. Greens and reds bled into yellow and orange; the wash of color dulled his senses to any tree's individuality. "These Crows of yours, Zevran. Are they as extraordinary as you claim?" He glanced over quickly; Morrigan stared straight ahead.

"They all but rule over my homeland. Do you find that extraordinary?"

"If true. Are they so powerful simply because they are very good at what they do? Or is there some secret to their power?"

'_It seems even apostates can have their interest piqued, given the right topic._' He kept his answer lighthearted and flippant; a rote response to any question put to him. '_Reveal nothing, even if nothing is all you have to reveal._' "If there were a secret, it would only remain so if it were not told, my dear."

The slight downturn of her lips was enough to show her displeasure with his answer. "You are no longer bound to such a code." She stopped, crossing her arms. "Or do you believe their wrath will be greater than it already is, should you speak out of turn?"

Zevran did not slow his pace, letting her fall behind him. "It may be that I simply do not wish to tell you. You get the most delightful wrinkle in your brow when you are curious."

He didn't hear her hurried footsteps but she was back beside him a few minutes later, taking her revenge for his evasiveness. "So what is going to keep you from poisoning your target now that you have been allowed to accompany us, I wonder?"

He gave a hearty laugh, "That would be too clever of me, I suspect." The sound she made indicated her agreement with his assessment of his own faculties. She obviously didn't believe his oath and considering he still had trouble believing he'd made it himself, the subject wasn't to his liking; the elf realized he preferred her silent if these were the topics she chose to bandy about. Discussing the Crows was harmless enough; the information he provided wasn't detailed and most of it was considered common knowledge in Antiva. He was less pleased about the inadvertent reminder of his second failed attempt on the Grey Wardens. "Why? Are you offering yourself as a means to distract me from my original purpose? If so, I accept." He doubted the other two humans confided their suspicions to her – Alistair, at least, was candid in his dislike of the woman.

His eyes roved over Morrigan's body, lingering on her barely concealed breasts; the draped purple fabric accentuated their fullness. Kingsway would soon pass into Harvestmere and the air was crisp, cool enough against the woman's skin to cause her nipples to peak. From there, he sought more bared flesh: her midriff and then down to the snug leather of her skirt. The belt-like strips hung from it gave an illusion of modesty when stationary – in motion, they swayed, affording glimpses of the inner thigh.

"Avert your gaze or suffer the consequence of having your eyes plucked from your skull and used as pincushions, elf."

The witch's voice was thick with contempt; Zevran ignored her and continued to stare. "What sort of Antivan would I be, to be adverse to a few pricks? Still, you wrong me; my eyes are fixated firmly on your sweet mouth."

"Do not play your games with _me_, assassin. I will remind you that my mouth has _teeth_." He heard the audible _click_ of her jaw as it snapped shut.

He finally looked up. "Does it? Intriguing – this adds a unique element of danger to our inevitable lovemaking that did not exist before." Morrigan's eyes narrowed, fine lines crinkling out from their corners. Satisfied he'd gotten the last word and certain his last comment ended their discussion, with several hours of travel left in the day, Zevran considered waiting for the oxcart. He did stop with that intent in mind when she surprised him by speaking again. '_Such subtlety. She will never require a sledge,_' but her switch of tactics interested him enough to listen to what she had to say.

"I suppose this is quite a change for you, Zevran – you must find us wearisome. Such adventures you've had! How can any of us hope to compare? And yet you've adapted quickly to our routine."

"Yes…" he conceded. "There does seem to be a certain amount of repetition in our daily activities. One almost hopes for a darkspawn attack or bandits to liven things up a bit." Gouged with deep wheel ruts, the elf jumped nimbly back and forth across their path, jaggedly crisscrossing while Morrigan stepped gingerly around the shallow trenches. "If you… seek a stimulating way to spend… your evenings, o magical temptress, you will find me… more than willing to undertake… entertaining you." Said purely out of habit; the continuous stream of meaningless flirtation ingrained as part of his training.

"I hoped you might say that."

Her answer startled him and Zevran nearly tripped; his recovery was a close thing. A fall would have been humiliating; glad she hadn't noticed, he took care to affix a smug grin on his face even as he noticed with distaste he had muddied one of his boots. "I am yours to command, my dear. Or perhaps you wish it the other way round? Although I suspect I have guessed correctly, yes?" Zevran waved airily with one hand and extended his other to her. "Were we to slip off the path, just here…" He let the sentence hang in the air and held his gaze steady with hers, searching for a sign of the apostate's intentions.

Morrigan blinked; her eyes darted skyward and the assassin felt a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. When she looked back, he had schooled his expression back to salacious solicitude. She paid no attention to his gesture of invitation. "I thought you might settle a… a wager between the sister and myself."

"About the delights of taking an elven lover? I would be hard pressed to refuse such an offer, coming from two such beautiful women." As she didn't seem inclined to take his outstretched hand, he let it drop to his side. "I would recommend in tandem, as neither of you seem the type to willingly share. But no matter – there is _plenty_ of me to go around."

"Do you _never_ tire of talking about yourself?" At Zevran's complacent shrug, "You are impossibly frustrating, you know this."

He chuckled. "I do. It is part of my charm, or so I'm told." Morrigan's response was to roll her eyes. "Come now, what is it you wish of me. What could you and the fair Leliana both be so inquisitive about?"

"The Grey Warden."

"Ah, I see. And how is it I factor into whatever scheme you two are devising?" Zevran would not have been much of an assassin if he was not schooled in keeping his own council but he had to bite back his surprise when she began describing the plan to him in its entirety.

Movement caught out of the corner of his eye caused him to turn his head sharply in the middle of her explanation, annoyed when he discovered the perceived threat was only a falling leaf – the first of many, as the season turned. The Antivan felt his temper rise before he clamped down on it; he wanted **city** sounds and **city** motions not this natural landscape reminding him every minute he was somewhere foreign, embroiled in a situation rapidly becoming more complicated than he liked.

Zevran knew the streets – his streets, leagues distant from Ferelden. The dark alleyways with feral cats swarming over mounds of offal at the docks, open plazas with sparkling marble fountains, the tanneries with their stench of rancid meat and urine coupled with the oak tannins and heady scent of leather, soft florals, the salty sea, the stink, the din – it all blurred together when he thought of his homeland. He knew what taverns watered their drinks, which merchants sold three-day-old fish as fresh and clean brothels from pox ridden. He knew when innuendo would work better than intimidation, when a smile would accomplish as much as cold currency and when a drawn blade trumped both. As a Crow, Zevran had been taught to be adaptable and in Antiva City he was; if the occasion called for it, he could impersonate anyone from any walk of life, from slave to royalty. Given the right tools, he could blend in, being both memorable and forgettable in the same breath; enough snare a mark's interest yet unidentifiable to any witnesses.

Ferelden was **not** Antiva. '_I do not know the rules here or even if I am playing the same game.' _Ever since the ill-fated ambush – one the assassin never expected to live through and his subsequent discovery he was more attached to living than he thought – he'd been lost, both literally and figuratively. Without cues on how to act or what role he should assume, he'd been behaving like a novice - reacting instead of thinking for himself. It wounded his pride, being forced to retreat to a time he'd long since left behind – proved by the hundreds of corpses in his wake and thousands of _andris_ tithed into the guild's coffers.

Morrigan's proposal – and the familiar structure it provided – was oddly comforting, like sliding into a warm bath. _This_ Zevran understood; here was a part he _knew_ how to play. It would, however minimally, be utilizing his talents and even – temporarily – lend him purpose beyond being just a killer of darkspawn, another nameless blade against a numberless foe.

Peripherally aware the woman had stopped speaking, her peevish tone informed him his lack of response and apparent disinterest irritated her. "Well?"

This, too, was customary – the negotiation. "Hm. I am compelled to point out, my dear, that while your plan is not without merit, you have yet to provide me with sufficient motivation to comply with your request." He deserved, after all, some form of recompense since he shouldered all the risk if the prank backfired, despite the scheme's licentious and delightfully devious appeal. "I do not consider success possessing its own reward; failure might mean an ultimatum to permanently part company which at this exact moment I am loathe to do for fear it might hasten my demise. Might I suggest–"

"No." Morrigan answered flatly, her lips set in a thin, grim line.

"You parrot our qunari friend and it does not become you, sweet lady. Does your compatriot share your views? Should I ask her what she might be willing to pay for this precious information you both seek?" Another supposition supported by Morrigan's scowl; Leliana's involvement was an invention, to give her story credence. "If you wish to see the show, you must of course pay the price of admission. It will not be so very expensive. A token – a trifle, really – something easily parted with. I am partial to gold or silver."

Zevran was exempt from the chores related to the nightly camp set-up; his first and only halfhearted effort at tent assemblage led to a clattering collapse of poles and canvas. The qunari, who only gave his title – Sten – instead of his name, had taken over, shouldering him aside with a muttered oath. The Antivan was content to let this stand; the man could curse and call him names all he liked, he was still doing Zevran's share of the work – a fair exchange, in the elf's estimation.

Tonight was no different. The group set about their assigned tasks, allowing him to lounge relaxedly on the grass and observe. Their jobs completed, one by one, members dispersed - attending to their own private errands before suppertime until only the Grey Warden remained. He was a long time emerging from his tent; Zevran had plucked every _meacamas_ within a reachable radius and was about to start in on the daisies.

"Oh." The single syllable was flat with dismay as Alistair pulled on a roughly woven tunic dyed a muddy brown.

'_Or maybe it is just that dirty._' The human's hygiene was questionable even on the best of days but it didn't stop the elf from standing in a single, lithe motion and flashing his most charming smile. "Do not sound so disappointed, my friend. You are free to spend the evening as you wish. I will take charge of the cooking; it seems only fair I do my share of the work and I am certainly capable of overseeing a pot of boiling water." He estimated the other man was no more than twenty paces away but closing the gap should be easy enough. "I have even harvested a bit of greenery to sweeten our stew."

Opening his hand, Zevran displayed a number of plants with whitish flowers but before he could complete the toss into the kettle, "NO!" Alistair lurched forward with the obvious intent of preventing the assassin from adding anything to their food.

At the outburst, Zevran just laughed and tossed the stalks over his shoulder. "White clovers – but they need to be boiled so as to be easily digestible. It seems you would rather I not contribute, so have it your way. I will supervise instead."

If the human was embarrassed about his overreaction, he didn't show it. "Where is everyone?" The day had been cold and the night grew colder; Alistair moved closer to the fire.

"Leliana mentioned hunting – she took her bow and departed only a few minutes before you finished changing. Sten and the mabari went into the wood to train. I have seen them at this; you and I would call it a game of fetch. Both our mages have absented themselves since we halted for the day." It dawned on him he had not seen the other elf since morning and said as much to Alistair. "Your fellow Warden takes his privacy quite seriously - I scarcely see him, except at mealtimes."

"Or maybe – here's a novel idea – maybe he doesn't like spending time with someone who tried to kill him. With a knife. You shot him in the leg too, didn't you? Or was it the shoulder? Oh wait, that's right, it was **both**."

"An act for which I have apologized and am attempting to atone. 'Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever, but the one who repents shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction.' Does not the Chant of Light preach redemption is within anyone's grasp if he chooses to seek it? Yet you would be less forgiving? What?" Alistair goggled at the Antivan as if he'd suddenly grown a second head or a third eye. "I went to the chantry as a child."

In light of Zevran's scripture quote, Alistair, while still looking sullen, solved at least one mystery. "He's always going off on his own. I told him it wasn't a good idea – that we should stay together – but he doesn't listen. I think he's just happy to be outside and isn't thinking of the consequences. They don't let them out much – mages, that is."

_This_ piece of news confirmed what Zevran already knew – his ambush had been a terrible idea. Discounting the other factors that played a part in his decision, he had also been taken in by the mythos surrounding the fabled Grey Wardens and believed the Ostagar survivors must be highly skilled to have escaped the massacre; instead the two were raw recruits with more luck on their side than common sense. Not that luck was a bad thing; the elf would choose luck over an army at his back any day – the death of Ferelden's king while these men yet lived proved his philosophy sound – but it galled him to have misjudged everything so badly. The Wardens' lives were in his hands – the sprung trap may have looked amateur but a trained assassin who does not succeed against his target isn't really trying – and Zevran was ambivalent about how he wanted his new situation to resolve itself. He gave a mental shrug. '_Che sera, sera._'

The human's face turned thoughtful. "They told us in Denerim that if we were assigned to the Circle, we'd have to watch for escape attempts when they allowed them out for exercise, but Sandor acts like he's never been out of the tower. Maybe it was like… like a privilege?"

"I find it difficult to imagine him being fractious enough to have such entitlements stripped. Rumors of the goings on inside the mages' Circles, however… let us say the polite term might be risqué. Completely untrue, as it turns out – at least in regards to the mages in Antiva. It is possible that within Ferelden, they have merit and this is why he was so securely sequestered." The thought of the other elf – naked, cavorting lewdly on a rooftop – brought a smile to Zevran's face. Were the assassin to try to believe six impossible things before breakfast, picturing the elven Warden in the throes of passion during a magical orgy would count for all six – and a dozen besides. '_It is not an unattractive prospect,_' the improbability notwithstanding.

"What sorts of rumors?"

Zevran gladly steered the conversation in this new direction; it better suited his purpose. "Hm? Oh, the usual." and favored the man with a knowing wink. "Tell me, my friend," the fire drew Alistair forward and Zevran mirrored him; the encroaching darkness made the tiny blaze a beacon of warmth and comfort. "Are Grey Wardens permitted to have relations?"

Alistair's startled cough almost made the elf chuckle, but Zevran wasn't going to let him off the hook so easily by deriding his own question to put the other man at ease. "I, uh, don't know what you mean."

"Intercourse. Sexual–"

"Okay look, when I said I didn't know what you meant, what I _meant_ was I don't want to talk about this. With you." Alistair paused before speaking again, voice laden with suspicion. "Why?"

Zevran gave a slight lift to his shoulders and took another step. "Curiosity served the cat admirably, why should it not serve me equally as well; death and satisfaction are, after all, my stock-in-trade, yes?" He was only a few paces from the Templar now, who didn't seem to notice he closed the distance between them.

"Fine. To answer your question, no, I don't think there's any rule against it. The subject never came up when I was with the other Grey Wardens, since there were no women." He waited to see if the Antivan would respond and when he didn't, Alistair pantomimed opening a book and thumbing through the pages. "There wasn't all that much talk about the rules. Duncan probably forgot to give me my handbook, what with the Blight and all."

"And were there a tenet prohibiting such behavior, would you follow it?"

Now the Warden laughed nervously and Zevran took his final step; staring up, he held the templar's gaze with his own half-lidded one until Alistair looked away. "Obey it to the letter? Depends - which are we talking about? I've always been partial to 'L' – loyal, limburger, lamppost."

"Yes, my friend – 'L' does begin a great many excellent words. There is also lips… and lust." Zevran reached up slowly but the human shied away from his touch.

"What… what are you doing?" Alistair stuttered his question, while at the same time, taking a step back but he misjudged where to set his foot and it put him off balance. Windmilling his arms to stop himself from falling, he then did the only other thing he could – Alistair grabbed ahold of the most stable thing within reach (which happened to be the assassin) and _that_ was when Zevran kissed him.

It wasn't a kiss as much as a forcible meeting at the mouth, but as they stood there, '_The heart: up through the stomach,_' the Grey Warden was vulnerable, '_the lung: from the side, between the third and fourth rib,_' and it only took Zevran a few seconds, '_the carotid: tip the head down and slice across the neck,_' to consider the easiest ways, '_the femoral artery: stab and twist,_' to kill him, '_the spinal cord: sever at second cervical vertebrae._' His decision not to was as much a surprise to him as Alistair's beginning to surrender to the embrace must have been to the templar himself and the combined shock was what separated them; Alistair relinquished his hold on the elf's shoulders and tumbled backward, landing on the ground with a _thud_.

Zevran placed his hands on his hips with a chuckle. "Ah, Alistair. There is no use pretending this tension did not exist between us. But I have taken it upon myself to dissipate it, no? Your passionate stares must cease and all you feel for me be requited with this single embrace we shared. I must stay true to my pledged purpose; romantic entanglements will only serve to distract me from it."

"All _I_ feel…? Distract _you_?" Alistair gawked at him; his mouth hung open while his throat worked to force out the words. "This must be what going crazy feels like."

"No no, there is no use trying to argue; I am deaf to your pleadings." He emphasized his statement with a quick, curt shake of his head. "What we have, it cannot be. You and I – we are finished." Zevran turned his back to the other man, hiding his smirk.

"What _we_ have? You and _I_…" He could hear Alistair muttering to himself. "I fell. I'm sitting on the ground because I fell and I hit my head. It's made me delusional."

When Leliana arrived back at camp some time later, he was still sitting on the ground. She shot the Antivan a questioning look, which Zevran answered with a noncommittal shrug. "Leliana," Alistair said plaintively, "I need a blanket. I'm in shock. People in shock always get blankets, or how else do you know they're in shock? You drape it over their shoulders and it's like a magical cloak. No one bothers you; they just give you tea, or a hot bowl of soup – maybe a biscuit if there are any handy – and pat you on the shoulder, saying 'There there.'" As an afterthought, he added, "**Do** we have any cookies?"

"Women. Our Alistair prefers women." Zevran was sprawled in front of Morrigan's tent, on one of the shaggy animal skins she spread out for her own comfort, enjoying an apple. Until recently, the woman eschewed any sort of dwelling but the changeable Ferelden weather put an end to her sleeping unprotected under the stars. "If he were wise, he would – as I do – consider both. There is so much more variety that way, always spoiled for choice."

When the apostate engaged his services, she had not specified he also needed to be truthful about any information he supplied; a fellow Antivan would not have made such an oversight. Dealing with the Crows was a stringent process, with the contracts drawn up to cover any number of contingencies even if the possibility of it occurring was remote. Fereldans, on the other hand, foolishly allowed him these loopholes – a mistake his former employers were probably already regretting, if they knew (and the assassin had to assume they did).

In the strictest sense, it wasn't a lie – there was a vast difference between what Alistair preferred and any possibilities he might be willing to explore in the future. His upbringing, coupled with a worldview composed of stark blacks and whites, made no allowances for non-traditional pairings. It also explained why the two men were at odds; Alistair's outlook was comprised solely of goods and evils with no sufferance for moral ambiguity.

"You are welcome, by the way." Morrigan appeared not to hear him; she stared into the fire as if performing a divination. '_She needs only a bloody bowl and entrails entwined about her fingers and she could be one of the Crows' brujas._' Zevran grew uneasy as he waited, watching her; she received the news with more seriousness than the trick merited. He _thought_ the entire scenario harmless – a diversion for him and, at worst, embarrassment for the templar once Morrigan was informed of their encounter. Zevran did not take kindly to being used though it was his own over eagerness that betrayed him. '_What do you think to gain, to take your sport with us in this manner, I wonder?_' He pitched the core onto the blazing logs, which got her attention; its moist flesh defied the flames until it started to smoke. "There is still the matter of my payment."

"Do you fear I will slip off in the night with debts unpaid? Never fear – you will get what is due you, elf."

"That and more besides, no doubt." His mocking grin the opposite of Morrigan's dour frown, he continued, "Shall we now begin haggling over price for the mage? He will come not nearly so cheaply – but still a bargain. I doubt you possess sufficient funds for the qunari." Zevran cocked his head, adopting an air of innocence. "Or perhaps you were concerned you faced competition for the affections of the lovely Leliana? She finds you beautiful just as she thinks Alistair handsome. It would be interesting to see who prevailed in such a contest." The woman's face turned several shades of rapidly darkening red as he spoke. "The only one I leave completely to you is the dog – you, my dear, are _really_ more his type."

Whatever rejoinder scalded her tongue, she kept to herself. Instead, she tossed a small object on the ground. The Antivan sat up abruptly, captivated by the gleam of polished metal he saw as it flew towards him; it landed in the dirt near his feet.

"The Wardens are no longer any concern of yours."

It was a brooch, its large blue gemstone set in an intricate silver setting. The filigree was delicate: threads twisted and plaited tightly, soldered together to form sweeping triangles at either end of the piece. Smelted, the resultant small ingot could be added to his other belted trophies. Zevran studied the stone, having never seen its like; cut, as a sapphire or aquamarine but with the turbidity of lapis. He had some knowledge of lapidary – it was in every Crow's best interest to have a basic grasp of the discipline since stolen souvenirs paid for what the guild didn't supply – but ransacking his memory, each recollection was rejected for one reason or another until he was left with only one possibility. '_Opal._'

'_She is ignorant as to its value._' Only rarely were opals faceted, and the elf had seen a great many – though none with this coloring – while in Antiva City; his Crow brethren prized the stone because it supposedly bestowed the gift of invisibility. There was something else; they purportedly took on the properties of the stone they most resembled – in this case, the sapphire.

Zevran considered himself neither superstitious nor particularly devout; the Crows had a great many rituals, just as Morrigan speculated but he considered that sort of faith a weakness. Any fool could blame a recalcitrant spirit for failure or thank a benevolent god for success, but he had been an assassin too long to believe gods watched over anyone or listened to the prayers and vows of men. The odd portent was nothing to turn one's nose up at, however – just as Zevran preferred luck on his side, a good omen never went amiss and the blue opal was certainly that. '_Sapphire gains the goodwill of princes, liberates the captive and counteracts sorcery and enemy plots. The Grey Wardens live, the mages have not killed me yet and I…_' He rose, intending to stoop over to scoop up his treasure.

"Yes, do take your tawdry trinket and go… whore."

It was the courtliest gesture he knew how to perform: stepping back, with his hand swept over his heart, the assassin bowed low, drawing back his right leg so his foot scraped the ground. Its depth far exceeded any degree of respect or gratitude – his was a parody of politesse. Zevran picked up the pin, gripping it so tightly as he straightened up he felt the ornate patterns imprint themselves into the skin of his palm. Then he spun about and walked away; the self-satisfied smirk never left his face, but the expression never reached his eyes.

'_**I**__ shall remain optimistic._'

* * *

Author's Note: I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).

S, Z and I thank you for taking the time to read this chapter, which was was inspired by **jenovan's **prompt in the Zevran adoration thread on the Bioware Social site. If you're so inclined, feel free to review (a critique is just as valued as praise), but if you'd rather spend your time doing something more entertaining, I'd recommend you read the excellent stories by **Raidho **and **TanithAeyrs**. Both have been very supportive of my writing, even when I'm not sure I'm giving them cause to be.


	3. Alicestair

Feet tangled, he clumsily pitched forward and a half-hearted twist to try and compensate for his lost balance only caused him to crack his jaw against the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth.

"Maker!"

His utterance was lost amidst frustrated grunts as Alistair endeavored to kick his way free of the spindly green vines; maddening, because he had no idea how he'd become so entwined. The plants seemed to have a life of their own, and were wound almost to mid-calf.

The garden was innocuous enough when he wandered into it, a welcome sight of gentility after his confused recollections of the golden afternoon. The tall, neatly trimmed hedges cordoned off the area from the rest of the dense forest, hiding the manse from view. Inside the leafy walls, flowers of every sort spilled haphazardly across and beside the barest hint of a packed earth path. Firm beneath his feet, the earth should have been softer; the early fall rain of a few days ago should have left it damp at the very least.

The flowers themselves were brightly variegated, a motley display for this late in the season: white day's eyes with their petals tipped pink, the purple-headed violets peeking out from under the broad leaves of the surrounding shrubs, bicolored pansies in a gaudy show of icicle blue, buttery yellow, black and cream, pussy willow catkins still a furry gray as if it were early spring, tulips, daffodils, morning glories and a dozen other common plants he couldn't put a name to. Some, he only recalled seeing in his uncle's hothouse through the thick, glass panes but Alistair's boyhood curiosity never included flowers so he'd never ventured inside for a closer inspection.

Mildly ashamed he couldn't recall the local bann's name, he meandered in the general direction he assumed the house must lay. Small trees – their dark brown branches heavy with oblong fruit roughly resembling cherries – divided one side from the other. "Leaves of three, let it be; leaves of four, eat some more. Berries white, run in fright; if they're red, you'll be well fed." Alistair wasn't yet hungry enough to pick anything birds weren't vying for. "If one eats too much of something that's poison, it's almost certain to disagree with one, sooner or later." His stomach gurgled its disagreement with the sentiment.

"Just giving myself some very good advice," he murmured glumly, torn between listening to the adamant statement his body sent as he passed another clump of low-hanging berries and his mind's certain to be wiser judgment on the matter.

A bend in the path led him to a latticed alcove, ornamented with climbing ivy. The arbor might have held any number of things: statuary or bench to rest upon after a pleasantly relaxing stroll through the grounds; instead the bower contained a rosebush, nurtured to substantial size, but with only a single blushing bloom. The rose was a deep, ruby red – so vibrant it appeared painted, not alive – and a light breeze wafted its heady, fragrant scent towards him.

Alistair extended his right hand; the wind shifted and the flower seemed to lean into his touch, "Like de Lorris and his Lady," allowing him to stroke the velvety outer petals.

'_I should leave it alone._'

Instead he plucked it; one of the thorns on its long stem scored his index finger and drew blood.

He swore again, and immediately apologized for the blasphemy as he tore persistently at the broad leaves at his ankles. It had been an impulsive thing to do, but it was, after all, just a _flower_.

A quick intake of breath – uncannily similar to the gasps of shocked dismay he earned regularly for his boyhood antics at Redcliffe – and Alistair knew he'd been observed. He turned in time to catch a flash of white and the rustle of bushes; someone hurriedly departed, likely to report his transgression. A few moments later, his fears were realized with the hollow _bough-woughs_ of dogs. With a flash of panic, he remembered the Queen was no friend of the Wardens – she'd have his head, if he was caught – and even if the bann was sympathetic to his cause, would he be given the opportunity to explain his trespass?

So, he'd run. The bushes pressed together, a tense tangle of leaves, twigs, roots, blocking his progress at every turn. After the second circuit around the garden brought him back to the desecrated rosebush, he drew his sword and began hacking away; Alistair carved himself an opening to escape. A tinny horn sounded – one, then several short blasts that certainly represented a call to arms – and he heard a horse's furious whinny nearby. He could imagine the men when they came for him: a pack of mabari swarming around a corner, followed by hard-faced guards putting the spurs to their mounts to ride down this stranger who tainted their pristine world with his interloping presence.

He shielded his face with his arm and pushed his way through; he felt the skeletal branches claw at his ring mail, scrabble against his greaves and breastplate… then he was through – or so he'd thought. His glance backwards then down showed him the creeping greenery that snared him, the white, trumpet-shaped flowers quivering as he strained to pull himself free.

He sprinted headlong back into the tulgey wood and didn't stop until he felt as if his lungs were about to explode. Alistair collapsed weakly onto his knees, chest heaving like a bellows and in between each gasp, strained his hearing, listening intently for the sounds of pursuit.

Boisterous bays and then… silence met his ears, almost as disconcerting as the frenzied howls of hounds. Birds should be shrieking sulky reprimands at him for disturbing their roosts, insects buzzing or chirping but instead – nothing.

Trying to lever himself back onto his feet, his hand descended on a mushroom, crushing it; a cloud of powdery cream spores floated upward and he inhaled the musty odor with a cough. Once standing, he discovered he'd dropped his sword but still gripped the rose; the thorns punctured the skin of his palm in several places and the wounds oozed blood.

As he had nowhere else to put it – and he was unwilling to relinquish it, after the trouble it caused him – Alistair stuck the bloom in his now empty scabbard and sighed ruefully, "I feel very manly. Yup. I'm pretty sure that's what it is."

The overhanging foliage wasn't impenetrable, but it was difficult to say whether the sun was setting or if the interlocked limbs above shielded him from the worst of the afternoon heat. The trees formed a natural corridor and, spying a light at the end of the virtual tunnel, Alistair headed towards it.

The deforested clearing held a rickety signpost which tottered, barely upright, where three roads met – four if what he'd used could be viewed as more than an overgrown trail or little-used animal run. The post was braced by a few carefully piled white rocks – the remains of a milestone if he was any judge – but the local residents might have been better served to keep their old marker. One of the directional arrows pointed straight up, two to Alistair's right and left and another roughly over his shoulder, back the way he had come. He tilted his head and squinted at the carved lettering:

ƧяƏwolᎸ Ǝvil

Brow wrinkled, Alistair tried to make sense of it – and the others – but all the words were unknown to him. The lengthening shadows indicated it was past noon, the sky shaded lavender and blue; just enough to indicate the onset of dusk wasn't far away. He was still hungry and after his escapade in the garden, wished he'd risked taking a handful or two of the red berries. Unwilling to leave this sign of civilization – he reasoned people must _use_ the crossroads, or else why have a marker – he cast about, in the hopes of spying something edible.

"Lose something?"

Alistair narrowly avoided drawing the flower in place of his sword. "Yes, that's right - watch as I thrash my enemies with the mighty power of floral arrangements," he muttered under his breath. The voice sounded as if it came from behind him, but there was no one there – Alistair turned about, confusedly. Until…

"Why, you're an elf!"

The speaker _was_ an elf, perched far to his left, above him on a low-hanging bough curved so it cradled his entire body like a hammock. "An _Antivan_ elf." Dressed in artfully dyed leathers, in the waning light he almost melted into his surroundings and if he'd never spoken, Alistair doubted he would have noticed the other man. "Dalish on my mother's side. Half and half and half again..."

Alistair counted the parts aloud. "Half and half and… But would be–"

"More than enough for any woman. Or man." The elf was on his feet in a fluidly graceful motion and with a cordial genuflection – a light touch of his fingertips to his forehead and then to his chest, over his heart – he pivoted easily, with the obvious intention of departing. Strapped to his back were two daggers; the weapons shared a lustrous polish – and Alistair was certain the blades' edges were honed with equal care.

"Wait, don't go!" '_Careful, now, Alistair – with respect._' He looked down; nudging a pile of leaf litter with the toe of his boot, he uncovered a mushroom, its long, white, spongy stalk topped with a sage-colored cap. "I was just wondering..."

In the span of a few seconds, when he looked up again, the branch was trembling slightly, but the elf had vanished.

"You were wondering…" this time, when Alistair turned, the other man _was_ behind him, on a limb just above the signpost, arms crossed, relaxed against the tree's knotty trunk with an easy grin.

"How did…" Alistair stammered, pointing back at the tree's twin, "You were just… I didn't hear…" Without doing anything besides inquiringly raising an eyebrow, the stranger was making him feel like a clumsy, boorish oaf. "Where are we?"

"At Wit's End."

Alistair waited for the rest of the joke, but the stranger's bemused expression didn't change. "At wit's end. Yes, yes I am." He forged determinedly ahead, "I just wanted to ask you which way I ought to go."

"Well." The elf's voice was pleasantly accented, and low, like a cat's purr. "That depends on where you want to get to, yes?" He had to stretch to reach; placing his hands on the triangular top of the signpost, he leaned over and affected to read the signs. His shoulder-length hair fell forward, obscuring his face.

'_Maybe they'd have made more sense to me if I'd stood on my head._' Alistair marveled at how the other man maintained his balance; he treated the air as if it was solid. "Oh, it really doesn't matter, as long as I–"

"Then, it really does not matter which way you go."

"– so long as I get _somewhere_," Alistair added as an explanation, gesturing in the directions the arrows pointed. The broad roads leading away, he observed, seemed to have shrunk until only the path to his right was visible; the trail he followed to get to the clearing had vanished altogether.

"Oh, you are certain to do that," said the elf, who now stood beside him, "if only you walk long enough." He ignored Alistair's baffled expression and continued casually, "It looks as if you ran afoul of something."

'_My hand._' The bleeding had slowed to sluggish trickles but the flesh around the wounds was reddish and inflamed. "It's nothing." Absurdly, he tried to hide his hand behind his back.

The elf was already shaking his head, and made a _tsk_'ing sound with his tongue as he took a step closer – the first time Alistair witnessed the man actually move. "What _did_ that to you? I had best have a look."

"I'd rather you didn't. I'll be fine." Alistair discovered he found the idea of an explanation mortifying. '_I'll let it fester and putrefy. I don't need two hands._'

"At least let me bind it for you." The elf produced a length of deep sky blue silk; taking Alistair's hand before he could protest again, he began to wrap it. His tanned skin making Alistair's look unhealthily pale by comparison, the stranger's hands were warm, and his ministrations exhibited gentle expertise; still, Alistair found himself vaguely troubled by the other man's close proximity even though he was doing nothing that could even be remotely classified as threatening. When he finished, the elf critically examined his handiwork. "What," he asked, fixing Alistair with a honey-colored gaze, "do you call yourself?"

"Alistair."

"_The_ Alistair?" The elf's eyes widened in unfeigned surprise.

"I… I'm _an_ Alistair." Saying that, he felt as if he'd failed some sort of test, so he added apologetically, "I'm sorry! I don't mean to be the wrong Alistair."

"Hmm." The elf stared at him appraisingly, and then nodded, as if he'd settled an internal debate. "I will, I think, need to take you to the Sister and the Sorceress."

The crescent moon overhead was as wide and bright as the elf's smile.

"'_The_ Alistair'? Are there a great many _un_important Alistairs in Ferelden? Luckily, I am forewarned and will query your fellow Warden about what might be appropriate conduct for when I encounter the rightful one."

The Wardens' company had been obliged to separate when Bodahn's ox pulled its own cue in the mud. As Sten's strength would be required to wrestle the animal to the ground for re-shoeing, it was decided he and Sandor would escort the dwarves back to Cotswold. Given the choice of remaining behind with Alistair, Leliana, and Zevran or returning to town, Morrigan wasted no time following her fellow mage back the rut-worn track.

"Tell me, my friend – do all Grey Wardens dream so vividly? I had not believed you possessed such an imagination." Leliana and Zevran, his head resting in the bard's lap while she re-braided his hair, had both listened tolerantly to the templar's after dinner recitation of his dream of the previous night. "Are you certain," the assassin said, finally cracking open an eye and tilting his head so he could see the other man, "that this was not an obscure story you once heard or read? You have only changed the names in order to amuse us, no? We will not think less of you – the tale is nonsense, of course, but entertaining nonsense." Zevran chuckled as Leliana murmured her agreement.

Alistair didn't let his discomfort show; instead, he protested, "It happened! You were there," pointing insistently at Zevran, "and you," then Leliana, "and… you believe me, don't you, boy?" He looked imploringly at Perro, Sandor's mabari, who wuffled, his stubby tail wagging.

"Dogs," Zevran remarked disdainfully, "will believe _anything_."

"That rose you describe reminds me of one of the bushes in our Chantry's gardens," Leliana said, as she continued to braid Zevran's hair in the style he favored. "Most of the flowers had been trampled or pulled up – Lothering needed room for people, not plants – but for some reason, no one touched this one. I knew the darkspawn's taint would destroy it, but it was still a reminder of the peaceful sanctuary I found when I arrived there."

Alistair's voice was oddly flat, "I was never in the Chantry's garden in Lothering."

"Yes yes, flowers are quite beautiful and I would like nothing better than to discuss them until our absent companions rejoin us tomorrow. But I do not believe Alistair has concluded his story?"

"I don't know…"

"Come now, my friend. You must know I was only playing with you. I am enthralled. You may resume," Zevran gestured airily, "by telling us more about… me." Leliana giggled.

"Well… you were dressed sort of how you are now, but the leather was dyed blue. Like… like that tree over there." Alistair's audience obediently looked where he indicated; the pine tree's needles had a glaucous hue. "And your hair was gray, and after you said we needed–"

"_Pardon_?" Zevran sat up quickly; Leliana jerked backwards, barely avoiding a collision as he did so. "I am afraid I have misheard you."

Glad to have recaptured his listeners' interest, Alistair repeated, "Oh, I said, after _you_ said we needed–"

"About," Zevran responded, coolly, "my hair."

"It was gray?"

"Are you implying, _my friend_," Zevran's eyes narrowed dangerously, "that I am _old_?"

"You are old–" Leliana's frantic arm waving and head shaking behind the assassin's back did not go unnoticed, "–er than I am?" Alistair couldn't keep from ending the sentence with high-pitched squeak.

"I… see."

The moment of tension passed when Zevran lay back down; the two humans breathed a silent, collective sigh of relief. "Might I clarify another point, Alistair? Before you continue the enchanting narration of this wonderland of yours?"

"Um…"

"This elf you describe – there is no doubt in your mind as to his identity? Even though he – that is to say, I – never provided you with a name?"

Alistair considered the question before he answered confidently, "It was you, Zevran."

"So, it is perfectly accurate to say that you were, in fact, dreaming about me?"

Alistair spluttered a flustered denial; Leliana erupted in peals of laughter.

And the crescent moon overhead was as wide and bright as the assassin's self-satisfied smile.

* * *

So this peculiar little chapter has been lurking in my head since February, when it was brought up in a Livestream session how easy it would be to put the Dragon Age: Origins characters into an 'Alice in Wonderland' scenario. I doubt anyone would try to debate the appropriateness of casting Zevran as the Cheshire Cat. Arguably, the Warden could be Alice, but I couldn't resist using Alistair. Sandor has his own dream sequence later; he doesn't need to steal Alistair's thunder.

To write this, I've actually used several references. We visit the Garden of Live Flowers from Lewis Carroll's 'Through the Looking-Glass'. Then, of course, I've also referenced 'Alice in Wonderland' by Lewis Carroll, Walt Disney's 1951 interpretation and Tim Burton's 2010 adaptation. I even wore Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's Cheshire Cat perfume oil while I worked on this, to help get me in the mood and had 'The Cheshire Cat' and 'Alice's Theme' from Tim Burton's film soundtrack on repeat. I believe I've quoted Alice, the flowers (specifically the daisies), the Cheshire Cat in both films, as well as Ilosovic Stayne's horse (wut?). Also, visually, I am using Stephen Fry/Tim Burton's Cheshire Cat with his gray and blue markings. You don't know how desperately I wanted to work in some sort of slant on the "I've always admired that hat" conversation, using boots, but I just couldn't figure out how to make it work (maybe if I come back to it in a few months?). I meant this to be sort of a lighthearted drabble (because I think I'm sort of failsauce on the non-serious business stuff), so hopefully I at least accomplish that and plug in Zevran and Alistair appropriately. I haven't edited this much (or... at all) so, for now, it is what it is.

Various Alices, Cheshires and their supporting casts belong to Lewis Carroll, Walt Disney and Tim Burton. Bioware owns Alistair, Leliana and other characters mentioned but not seen. I lay claim to Sandor and Perro (and falsely, to Zevran. Can't blame me for trying, can you?). Feedback is welcome and encouraged (criticism is just as valued as praise).

I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).


	4. Urthalis

Sweat dripped into his eyes but Zevran didn't pause to wipe it away; the battle would be won or lost in a matter of minutes. His attacker was too obviously broadcasting his strategy: widening his stance, he swung the double-edged axe at the elf's shoulder, knuckles whitened in a taut grip. The blow had enough force behind it to take off Zevran's arm or head – if he'd remained stationary – but the Antivan anticipated the move, dodging to the left as the haft passed close enough for him to see the straight lines inscribed on the langets; their geometric patterns formed an exitless maze.

Crouched low to the ground, his hand made contact with the sandy surface of the arena's floor and he exchanged his dagger for a handful of dirt, which he flung into his opponent's face.

With a loudly sworn oath, Oghren dropped his battleaxe and stepped back, rubbing the grit out of his eyes, "Sodding knife-eared nug-humper! You always cheat when you're about to lose. Never trust an elf!"

Zevran picked up his dagger and rose, chuckling. "I am flattered by your assumption that I played fair from the start." He inspected his weapons; satisfied they were as clean as he could make them for the time being, he sheathed them. "I find honor as a commodity to be limited in its usefulness. If you would prefer next time I go _easy_ on you, I will happily oblige." He quickly scanned the stadium, looking up into tiered seats where the other combatants and spectators milled about now that the match was over, and pitched his voice so it carried, "If there is no one else?"

There wouldn't be; training with House Gavorn always ended with Oghren since the dwarf began accompanying him a week ago. Of the warriors he faced – including Vartag, King Bhelen's second – only Oghren required him to put forth much effort. For all his grousing about Zevran's tactics, the dwarf wasn't principled and the assassin had no doubt he would have used the same trick himself, if he'd thought of it first.

"If I have to listen to another stone-sucking Shaperate member ask me what it was like being married to that moss-licking paragon wife of mine at the feast tonight…"

Oghren's face reflected his disgust at the line of questioning and Zevran agreed; the interviews were the reason he was here. His role, he reasoned, had been a small one and he already told them everything he knew – it wouldn't be long before he began repeating himself. The queries kept coming until they forced Zevran to take refuge in these sparing sessions. '_I am not the only one who tires of the constant bombardment,_' a fact that made him smile, when he remembered who had been observing from the stands the last few days, '_although I suspect our Grey Warden has a different agenda._' Still, the fact remained everyone's patience was wearing thin, exacerbated by the fact that travel was impossible; they were trapped until the weather cleared and the mountain pass re-opened.

"I think I need to be drunk before I can look at Tadmor over Joris' _nugenpiobar_ and **not** want to kill him." Tadmor Gavorn – a distant cousin of Vartag's – continued to needle Oghren about his status in Orzammar proper; in spite of the role he played in bringing Caridin's crown to Bhelen, the red-bearded dwarf was still forbidden from openly carrying any weapon within the city. "C'mon, join me in a drink, elf!"

"Or two? Or three? Thank you but no, my friend. As appealing as that sounds, I have something far better awaiting me back at the palace."

"Oh, I get it, _I_ get it. Don't mind old Oghren." He nudged Zevran so hard in the ribs it caused him to double over.

"It is a _bath_ I refer to, but as you and soap do not appear to be on speaking terms, I do not imagine you take the same joy in it as I do." It was another amenity, courtesy the elven Warden; he paid the servants to ensure hot water was waiting for the Antivan every afternoon although Sandor wasn't aware Zevran had discovered the arrangement.

"Take joy? Partaking in a little southern romance, are we? Is that what elves call shinin' the shaft?" Oghren guffawed. "Well, I'm not one to begrudge a man his pleasures. But," he squinted at Zevran, "you're not too bad to look at."

"After such a silver-tongued proposition, how can I possibly refuse?"

Oghren stumbled back a few steps at seeing Zevran's leer; his face grew red as he spluttered, "I didn't mean **me**, you daft tree hugger! I just meant there are plenty of dwarven women who'd be willing to overlook… Stone take you!" he blustered as Zevran continued to grin. The dwarf mumbled under his breath as he stomped past the assassin and headed for the southern archway.

Zevran went east; as he neared the wall, he broke into a run and, leaping, grabbed ahold of the crude iron rail. With his feet scrabbling for purchase on the pockmarked gray concrete wall, he pulled himself up and vaulted over, leaving the way the Proving's audience entered. A few dwarves made friendly comments as he passed through the lobby and he returned the wave of Varick, who never appeared to leave the auditorium's halls.

As he entered the main thoroughfare, Zevran halted on the stone bridge when he observed the figure at the far end. Sandor never lingered once the matches ended but Zevran felt positive _he_ was the one the other elf came to see – but despite spending months in the other's company, he still had no conclusive proof beyond intuition and his own ego. Unfortunately, in the course of their daily activities, the opportunity to speak the other elf privately never arose. It was impossible for the assassin to tell if this was accidental or intentional; comradely invitations were politely declined but Zevran didn't feel singled out by the rejections – the elven Warden spent all of his evenings alone, in his room, reading. As he had next to no personal experience with mages outside assassination targets – spell casters were rare within the Crow ranks and his branch of the House had none – the Antivan didn't know if it was for knowledge or pleasure, but the implication was that schooling never ended, even outside the Tower.

'_What do we study today, my Grey Warden?_' Sandor stared down as if hypnotized by the scene below, the yellows, oranges and reds swirling around the city set in the heart of the mountain; the floe sounded like the muted roar of a distant waterfall, the rumble of molten stone oozing through its carved channel. Zevran approached slowly, with the thought to discuss, obliquely, the dagger he now strapped to his back. In addition, in a private setting – with just the two of them – he might coax Sandor into revealing his attraction, '_Unless I have read more into covert glances and smiles. All because of a fiction invented by Morrigan to further vex me or make me look the fool twice over.'_ Zevran had been Morrigan's pawn once before – that experience made him doubly cautious, now.

The mage paced along the walkway, glancing down between the crenels. When he reached the end, he hopped up onto the ledge, steadying himself by grasping the dwarven marker before he leaned over. It was all Zevran could do to keep from calling out, but he feared startling the other elf into inadvertently letting go of his handhold.

"I can protect you from many things, my friend – but I am unable to save you from yourself."

Sandor remained poised on the edge but a sheepish grin crept onto his face, like a child caught cheating in a solitary game of _rayuela_, his eyes still fastened on the terrain below. "I just wanted a better view; you can't _see_ anything from up here." With his free hand, he pointed to the corner diagonal to them. "Do you think you can lower me down from there?"

"Lower you…" The Antivan was reminded of his former partner Taliesin and his incredulous disbelief upon hearing some of Zevran's (purposefully ludicrous) proposals and felt a moment of sympathy for what he must have put the human through. '_In the future I should perhaps strive to accumulate a bit more positive karma._' He exhaled slowly, "You know not what you ask of me. Tell me, my Grey Warden, do you have much experience scaling buildings or walls?"

"Well, I… in the Tower, I climbed the bookcases sometimes when I wanted…" He turned then and Zevran caught a spark of something in his eyes and the set of the other elf's jaw that told him he was in for an argument. "You don't think I can do it."

He hadn't realized Sandor was so stubborn. "It is not that I do not believe you capable but I have experience in these matters. Getting in – and out – of tight places is a specialty of mine." Zevran smirked but the ribald remark seemed lost on his audience, so he jumped up and joined the elven Warden on the lip of the bridge, gesturing toward the spot Sandor indicated.

"Even were I to assist you, there would be little benefit to it – the battlement too long and too low and I would have no leverage. The drop, since the wall's surface looks to be smooth and so lacking in handholds, would be at least twenty feet. It is not uncommon for falls of an even shorter distance to result in injury." He purposely omitted the additional hazard of plunging into the lava and burning alive; Zevran doubted Sandor needed him to point out the obvious.

The mage opened his mouth to respond – ready to point out the flaw in his last argument – but Zevran placed an arm around his shoulder, which silenced him. "No doubt you could easily heal yourself, even from such a grievous hurt as a broken leg – assuming you did not faint from the pain and then proceed to bleed to death, beyond such aid as I might render."

"So you have survived the fall, mended any broken limbs and are down below, seeing whatever it is you are so intent on investigating. There yet remains a problem." Was he imaging the tension he felt in the elven Warden's muscles as he drew closer? "How do you get back up? I am again reminded of the distinct lack of rope about."

"I… we could…"

"We could… wait until my hair grew and I could fling down my tresses, like a golden stair for you to climb?" The joke earned him a startled laugh; it was a pleasant sound and one he heard too rarely from the other elf. Zevran smiled. "Though I would rather play the part of Bensiabel," '_Is he familiar with Antivan fairy tales, I wonder?_' "it seems to me you overlook the simplest solution." The tilt of the mage's head asked his question for him, so Zevran answered, "Request it as a boon from the King. He owes you far more than coin and a politician's promise can repay – if you wish to delve into every nook and cranny of his city to satisfy your curiosity, he would be wise not to argue. The onus then falls on whomever he designates as a guide to procure a method for your descent."

The newly crowned King of Orzammar's answer was not the only surprise in store for Zevran that evening.

Dinners were a formal affair. Afforded places of honor, the Grey Wardens and their companions sat nearest the King, while the rest of the dwarven nobility constantly maneuvered for the most advantageous position: closest to the foreign visitors, with the ability to hear and be heard over the general babel at mealtimes.

When the main course was served – another dish containing nug, Zevran was dismayed to discover – Sandor broached the topic.

"Your Majesty," he began deferentially, "I joined the Grey Wardens not long after my Harrowing. I don't know how familiar you are with the ceremony; perhaps not at all as there are no dwarven magi. Rather than bore you with the specifics," a wise move, in Zevran's estimation – the king's patience was in direct proportion to how great or small the personal gain, "I mention it because the test is customarily administered when an apprentice is much younger – entering into adulthood – between eighteen and twenty-two. My specific area of expertise necessitated a significantly longer period of study; at least, that's what my teachers told me." Laughter echoed around the table, as the comment was relayed and repeated.

A surreptitious glance at the other companions told Zevran that the information was new to them, due to Alistair, Leliana and Morrigan's attentiveness to the conversation. '_Odd. Surely they have delved into their respective histories by now, so long in one another's company._' If it was the closemouthed qunari speaking, the assassin could understand, or even himself, being a relative newcomer. '_And we are of an age. Interesting._'

"–and I would be hard pressed to think of a more wondrous feat than the one the dwarven people have constructed, encircling the inner ring of your city." The assassin's contemplation during the conversation hadn't stopped the mage's discourse, "I could name a half dozen books about the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux: its architecture, the stained glass windows, its bells or the stonemasonry, yet I can't recall a single one that mentions the artificial lava. Is it a recent construction? A commission of your late father's?"

Zevran took a bite of his food, only to realize he'd accidentally tipped his spoon so its contents fell back into the bowl. Alistair's utensil hadn't even made it that far; the human Warden held it halfway between the bowl and his mouth, as he stared at his elven counterpart in astonishment. "I would enjoy being in your Ferelden far more, my friend, were the food not so utterly _bland_. Your stew being the exception of course – **it** is in a category all by itself." The Antivan elbowed the young templar in the ribs – hard – when he didn't respond. "Your food grows _cold_, Alistair." he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "Do you not notice the pall which has overtaken the gathering at your fellow Warden's pronouncement? If ever there was a time to behave normally, I recommend _this_ would be the juncture to do so and resume eating."

Another sideways glance confirmed all the dwarves at their table looked at the King, with the exception of Oghren, who continued as though nothing was amiss. If Sandor noticed the change in atmosphere or the decided lull in conversation, he didn't show it – the mage looked eagerly expectant but Zevran could already tell he wouldn't receive the answer he hoped for.

"How… astute of you to notice, Grey Warden." The King pushed his plate away and steepled his fingers over the table as the dish was whisked away. "_Very_ few surfacers discern the difference. I have always taken as a complement to our ancestors and the Paragons. What is _your_ interest in it, if I might inquire?"

It was as if every dwarf in the room held his or her breath. "Did you know–" Alistair whispered furtively and Zevran shot him a withering glare. The human Warden went back to concentrating on his dinner, looking dejected. It was unfair, Zevran knew, to make Alistair feel stupid over something he too had missed – something right under his nose. That fact bothered the assassin, more than a little; he prided himself on being observant.

'_Trust our Grey Warden to notice something the rest of us overlooked._' Zevran believed what his eyes and ears had told him and taken for granted – even reveled in – the warmth, which was a welcome change from the colder temperatures of Ferelden. '_Who would think such a thing is not genuine? What purpose does it serve? Why…?_' He now understood Sandor's earlier intensity because his _own_ mind raced with questions.

"Oh, purely academic. Is it very old? How does it work? The panels, they're glazed ceramics, correct? Works of art – all those colors! They account for the grinding sound you hear, I'd guess, as they scrape against one another? How often do they need to be replaced? Does it ever break down? I'd be grateful-"

"Yes, I imagine you would be." Bhelen Aeudcan lifted his glass, which was immediately filled by a waiting attendant. He sipped the reddish liquid and then addressed the elven Warden while holding the glass aloft, lazily swirling around its contents. "It was built, to my understanding, prior to the reign of King Valtor – this would be, to put it in terms you are familiar with, Grey Warden, before Caridin ascended to Paragon. As to the rest, you must understand I am no expert and those who are cannot be spared from the operation. The Memories are of course open for your perusal. Now, if you will excuse me."

The dwarven king stood and Sandor barely managed to stammer out, "Thank you Sire," before Bhelen left the dining hall. Even though the meal was half-finished, his departure signaled the end to supper and the exodus began a few minutes later as servants stepped forward to clear away dishes.

Oghren ladled stew into his mouth until the bowl was out of his reach, then threw the spoon down with a clatter and shoved back from the table. "Well, that's a fine thing, leaving a man starving. Where's everyone off to in such a hurry, anyhow?"

No one spoke up – Sandor looked lost in his own thoughts while the others exchanged nervous looks, recognizing the subject appeared to be taboo to the dwarves but uncertain as to why.

"The Grey Warden asked to see the workings that power the lava. Why have it, if it is not real? I fail to see the point." Sten broke the silence with his straightforward assessment. Heads swiveled back to Oghren, expectantly.

The red-haired dwarf grunted, "Ah that. It's a relic, is all. Branka went prying and poking around down there a few times – always came home with fire in her eyes. 'What a waste, all that power!' or summat. She smelled a bit when she came back - tunnels, you see, s'like a madman's warren down there and knowing her, she probably crawled through sewage and slop to reach the place. Whatever she saw made her hot for ol' Oghren afterward so I didn't complain. Much." He laughed until it turned into a hoarse cough then asked, "Who's for a drink! Tapster's never closes – their food ain't much but it's cheap and they serve _seconds_!"

Even Morrigan agreed, with the stipulation she came along only in order to see what types of places to avoid in the future; a gauge of the unease everyone felt after Sandor's summary dismissal.

Alistair's hand on his shoulder finally jarred the mage out of his private reverie; he turned toward his fellow Warden and seemed bewildered upon noticing the hall was empty. "What? Oh, no thank you Alistair, not tonight. I have some–"

"–reading to do," Zevran mouthed along as the other elf said the words and hid his disappointment behind a smile and boisterous slap on Sten's back as they left through the double doors.

Zevran's night lasted until morning and he relied on adrenaline to fuel him through the day, anticipating with relish the long soak in early afternoon and a nap before supper. '_I will arrange to take the meal in my room and invite the Grey Warden to join me. No doubt he has spent the day engrossed in the Shaperate and will welcome the chance to discuss what he has discovered. A bottle of Valenta's Red to keep the conversation flowing, as we Antivans like to say, and if the topic strays to something more… intimate, all the better._' He paused only a moment on the bridge to marvel at the spectacle below before hurrying onward to the Diamond Quarter.

He was bustled with the usual efficiency into the bathing chamber by Araja, who _tsked_ over the state of his leathers. Normally, she stayed and gossiped – dwarves were not prudish and if the odd coin fell out of his clothing while she tidied up, fetched more towels or soap at his request, neither made mention of it. He liked her; he also suspected she knew very well that Sandor wouldn't have wanted his arrangement made public but told him anyway as a means to extort further payment. It worked – she became richer and he better informed, so it was mutually beneficial. Today, however, he sent her off with instructions to the head chef, "Impress upon Joris my desire for a _light_ supper for two. I would prefer an assortment of appetizers rather than a full meal: dried slices of _jaca-dura_, marinated _enoki._ Food that is conducive to prolonged conversation. I trust you to make him understand."

Once she left, the assassin eased himself into water just a hair cooler than boiling and hot enough he began to sweat. '_Scandalous to so profusely profit from my change in loyalties. I am terrible and it makes me sad._' Submerged up to his collarbone, the assassin tilted his head back and shut his eyes.

When the door to the chamber slammed open, it roused Zevran out of his doze; he had been in the midst of a lurid daydream involving himself and the elven Warden naked at the bottom of a gigantic brandy snifter, making love in the dregs of the warm _Sol y Sombra_. The scent of _Anís_ in his nostrils was so strong, for a moment he had difficulty distinguishing which vision represented reality.

'_Alistair._' The young Templar stood silhouetted in the doorway with his hands on his knees, chest heaving as he caught his breath. Zevran gave an audible sigh of resignation; his fantasy and resultant erection would have to wait. He consoled himself with the thought of Alistair's face when he realized what it was he interrupted.

He scooted back just enough so he could fold his arms behind his head. "Why the unseemly amount of haste, my friend?" The human Warden still panted and in response to Zevran's question held up a hand, gesturing he was trying to regain his breath. "What crises are the Grey Wardens expected to solve now? Are we to be sent on an expedition to recover some lost golden idol, all the while dodging cunningly crafted traps left behind by the ancient dwarven peoples?" The Antivan drawled on, warming to the subject, "There will be pits filled with spikes and floors dotted with treacherous pressure plates. There is also the distinct possibility of spiders. Myself – I prefer snakes; I do not even find rats especially objectionable. Of course, once we locate the prize, a slight error in judgment will bring the walls crashing down about our heads but we will still manage to barely escape with our lives, just in time to have our treasure snatched away and used against us. Ah politics." Alistair's arrival with another demand from the king wouldn't surprise him in the least.

"Sand… Maker, I can't _see_ that!" Alistair clapped a hand over his eyes; flushed from whatever drove him to barge into the room, his face turned an even deeper shade of scarlet as he straightened up.

"No? Yet here you are. Either await without while I finish my bath, or come inside and shut the door, as all my delicious heat escapes while you stand, awestruck, in the doorway."

Alistair's compromise was to come into the room and shut the door, but he turned and faced it as he spoke. "Sandor's missing. Do you have any idea where he might be?"

"Missing? More likely you overlook–"

"Do you _really_ think I'd rush in here, knowing I might see… _that_," the human Warden made a vague backward gesture in Zevran's direction, "if I hadn't checked? Never mind - I should've known you'd be like the others."

He reached for the door handle but before he could push it open, the assassin asked, "Others?" wondering just how desperate Alistair was and what factors played a part in consulting him. "What did they suggest?"

"Leliana said I was overacting and Sten was Sten and said something that was probably a qunari proverb for 'Get lost'. Leliana laughed." If the room had been bigger, Zevran got the impression the young templar might have begun to pace. "No one seems to care, but I'm worried. Ever since…"

The Antivan understood what Alistair alluded to – Sandor's erratic behavior in the Dead Trenches. "Something has happened? Changed from how it was before?" He sat up, all thoughts of playfully tormenting the other man for his breach of etiquette forgotten; water splashed against the side of the tub from his sudden shift of position, overflowing onto the floor.

But Alistair shook his head. "No. Just… he shouldn't spend so much time alone. It's not healthy."

The slight hesitation told Zevran that while Alistair meant what he said, he wasn't saying precisely what he meant. "On that count, my friend, I wholeheartedly agree. Allow me to finish," Alistair's alarmed exclamation interrupted him, "finish my _bath_ and I will assist in the search."

There was no place for Alistair to sit so Zevran hurriedly finished his ablutions with only the briefest lament he couldn't indulge himself and take his time. The assassin didn't share Alistair's concern, certain he exaggerated and they'd find Sandor tucked away in a corner, absorbed in the book on his lap – but he was also flattered Alistair consulted him, taking it as a sign the other man was coming to trust him. At least, held him in higher regard than Morrigan or the dog; Zevran took small victories where he could. He was sitting on the lip of the tub, pulling on his boots when Araja returned.

"Done already? Oh, _I_ see. Company."

Zevran spoke before the dwarven woman could make a bawdy comment and set Alistair blushing. "Araja, my dear, have you seen my friend's fellow Grey Warden today?" Servants were the eyes and ears in any home that could afford them and he doubted the young templar asked anyone outside the mage's companions about his whereabouts, although he'd be irate if the solution were that simple.

"_Pyykin_," she replied and brushed past Alistair, scooping up a discarded towel.

The two men exchanged looks. "I apologize, but I do not…" The Antivan knew less than a little dwarvish and what he did know revolved around food, drink or insults. This word was unfamiliar.

The dwarven woman picked up another towel, adding it to the compact bundle in her arms. "Come along, I'll show you. I need fresh linens anyway." She strode purposefully out the door; the elf and human quickly followed.

She led them down one corridor after another and through several doors until Zevran got the distinct impression of depth; the slope was gradual but the low ceilings were an oppressive reminder of the tons of rock overhead. Alistair still looked anxious – probably because of his preconceived notion about where they were headed. '_Pyykin, prison,_' he rolled the two words around in his head. Similar, but Araya's demeanor told him their final destination was something else entirely. After she informed him about her meeting with Joris, "He said he'd see to it – _personally_. I've never seen that blockhead so fired up about anything, shouting orders before my foot was out the door!" she scurried along in silence but with no sign of reluctance. '_Perhaps she is sadistic._' He tried not to dwell on the thought.

He was beginning to regret suppressing his natural instinct for exploration; it hadn't seemed prudent in a place where he was welcomed as a hero instead of reviled as a wanted criminal, especially with so many _guards_ when she came to a door and stopped, "Here we are: _pyykin_."

The blast of moist heat when she opened the door made Zevran think they entered a sauna, until he stepped inside and realized where they were. '_The laundry._' There were naturally formed craters all around the room, functioning as basins to hold clothes and other fabrics in various states of cleanliness. Men and women with wooden poles stirred and poked at the contents and ferried buckets of water back and forth and while others were up to their elbows in sudsy water.

There was a lull as they entered, then the amiable chatter resumed. "Why would he be _here_?" Alistair asked, voicing the Antivan's unspoken query.

Araja had slipped away to deposit her load but returned with a woman wielding a pronged metal rod and the stern attitude of a taskmistress, whose scowl deepened with every word Araja said to her as they made their way toward the two men. Dwarven castes were strict, possessing their own hierarchy within the structured classes and the deference his attendant showed the other woman placed her station well above Araja's, who didn't even bother with introductions; she exited swiftly, her errand completed.

"Huh." The woman stared at them, methodically smacking the bar against her open palm. Though she was half his size, Zevran could easily picture her grabbing him and throwing him over a knee to administer punishment – and _not_ the type he might normally enjoy. With each meaty slap, he felt his testicles contract and wished Alistair would speak his piece so they could leave. Sandor was nowhere in evidence.

Alistair opened his mouth but the dwarven woman had been waiting for this opportunity, "Now just you listen here _Grey Warden_," before Alistair uttered a sound, making his title sound like an infectious disease, "I don't care if you shit Paragons, I'll not have that elf coming into the palace looking like that again, do you hear? Black – from head to toe! Tried to slink past the guards, as if the trail of Dust Town slime didn't cling to him like _naaktslak _mucus. Took us an hour to walk him down here, step-by-step, putting one rag in front of the other so he wouldn't foul the floor. If I'd had my way, he'd have been in the bucking until all that was left was his bleached bones!"

She swung the rod in a wide arc and both men leaned back to avoid the metal spikes at its tip as she pointed. "It'll have to be burned, there's no getting the filth out from the cracks and crevices, and not one of mine will touch his clothes and I won't ask them to!

Zevran turned his head to see what it was she indicated; dismayed to discover a wooden tub maybe half the length of his leg and shallow enough the water wouldn't reach his kneecap. A dark lump lay in the bottom – presumably, these were the mage's ruined clothes. Allowing for the basin's shape, Sandor would have had to stand, or sit with his knees drawn up to his chest after being stripped. If what the matron described was accurate, it sounded as if he'd then been scrubbed down in front of several dozen dwarves, while being shown as much consideration as one might a dog who'd rolled in something smelly. '_But how would he have…_'

Then, a revelation; in retrospect, he might have even expected it, if he'd given it any consideration at all. Easy to blame the sleepless night taking its toll on his faculties, but in truth it didn't occur to him – the assassin wasn't familiar enough with the mage to know all of his foibles and now he could add malfeasance to the list of traits the other elf possessed.

Meanwhile, Alistair's growing irritation proved equal to the woman's intimidating manner, "Now, wait just a minute! You mean to say–"

"–that you have not been properly thanked for the trouble the other Grey Warden has put you to?" Zevran's sudden and viselike grip on the back of Alistair's neck caused the young Templar to give out a yelp. "It is fortunate that we came, my friend, to ensure these good folk received their due. In addition, we would happily pay for any damage he caused…"

"We would?" Alistair's confusion at the turn in the conversation was apparent, but Zevran didn't care so long as it kept him from speaking.

"As well as remunerate you for the disruption to your schedule. In addition, we shall inform Delmus–"

"Delmas," the dwarven woman corrected him.

"Delmas, Steward Delmas of your diligence. You do him and the entire household much honor…" he let the sentence dangle, hoping she would take the bait.

"Gunndis."

"More than mere gold can ever repay – although we will of course, _try_, Gunndis." He flashed an endearing smile; she remained unmoved. "Would ten, no, fifteen gold," he said, as the slight downturn of her lips indicated her dissatisfaction with the first sum he named, "be sufficient to replace your equipment?" Zevran lowered his voice conspiratorially, "Plus, let us say… five gold for you personally – to offset the unexpected interruption to your workday?"

At her curt nod, "Pay Mistress Gunndis, Alistair – twenty gold, as agreed."

"Twenty gold?" Alistair's repetition of the sum sounded strangled with the effort it took to say, "Twenty gold is–"

"Given with thanks from the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, is it not Alistair?" He tightened his grip and slowly, Alistair nodded.

The young templar counted out the money, dropping it into Gunndis' outstretched hand; every _clink_ caused him to wince. When twenty coins had been passed over, she turned on her heel, brandishing her pole menacingly at those dwarves who stopped to watch the transaction, shouting directives as if the two men weren't present.

"Well, I like that." Alistair grumbled, as the Antivan guided him back out the door, "Without so much as a 'Kiss my foot' or 'Have an apple'. That was all the gold I had, you know."

"Which is a shame – if we had more, we might be able to bribe the guards as well."

"What do you mean?"

Zevran stopped and reached up, rapping his knuckles against Alistair's forehead. "Odd… it does not _sound _empty. Think, my friend! The clues are there for you to follow to their logical conclusion: last night's discussion coupled with Gunndis' description. Where is it he has been?"

Alistair's brow crinkled in concentration, then, "No. No, he _couldn't_ have. Would he? I might be thick but even I know what it means when Bhelen does that thing… you know, with his eyebrows."

"Perhaps he did not understand, or it may be he feels that the King's missive does not apply to him, given all the Wardens have done for Orzammar and King Bhelen in specific. We also cannot overlook the distinct possibility that he simply does not care and does what he wishes to do, regardless of any prohibition, implied or otherwise. The why of it does not matter, however – it is done – but I think I know now where to find our wayward Grey Warden." He let the rest of his thought remain unvoiced, '_Let us hope the King is feeling magnanimous. Our friend took pains to try and conceal his return from the depths – it most unfortunately sounds as if he found what he was looking for._'

As they retraced their steps, the discussion eventually devolved into an argument. "I don't see why I should be the one going to dinner and making small talk like nothing's happened."

"I have explained this twice already. I made arrangements to dine privately with your fellow Warden so our absence will be expected – even anticipated – and there will be no place set for us." Zevran avoided mentioning the understanding was between him and the castle staff and that the elven mage was unaware of the plan, "_You_ must go and behave normally, insofar as that is possible."

Drawing out the vowel, "Ooor," Alistair countered, "I could come with you. He might want to talk about what happened."

"Then I shall listen. I am all ears, as we elves like to say."

"Didn't you say something about your employers not paying you for silence, or wait, no – you didn't offer it for sale, which makes you more of the talking type. As in, never shuts up. Not to mention you're not exactly Mister Sensitive."

"My friend, what information could your fellow Warden possibly impart to make your attendance mandatory?" Before Alistair finished opening the door in front of them, Zevran placed his palm on it and pushed it shut. "Is it that you possess a gift for concealing the deepest of secrets – or another qualification that I somehow lack? That must be it, no? Why else would you haggle like a fishwife over such a commonplace occurrence as a conversation?"

"I don't trust you. I don't trust you and I don't understand why he does. This isn't a _game_, Zevran and we're not all here for your amusement." Whatever he read in the Antivan's expression caused him to take a step backward. "There, right there," he said, pointing at the elf accusatorily. "That's exactly what you think, isn't it. And when you end up stabbing us in the back, well – the joke's on us. But don't worry Alistair, it'll make an amazing story back home in Antiva! The great Zevran – so clever and resourceful – making fools out of a couple of Grey Wardens."

"_Cavolo__!_" The assassin threw up his hands. "We cannot continue to tread this ground, Alistair. Had I wished to kill you – either of you – I could have done so a hundred times over." Swift as a snake strike, the blade – the one Morrigan claimed was a gift from the elven mage – was in his hand and pressed against the soft skin of the young Templar's throat. "You would not even have time to scream. You think to overpower me, to evade me before I can make my thrust, yes? Look down, my friend." Zevran's other dagger was poised at the other man's midriff, its point already angled under his protective armor plating. "You may still have time to cry out, but with your artery severed, you would die within minutes – long before any aid might reach you. And I? I would have a dozen witnesses willing to swear they knew my exact whereabouts at the time of your death and so be blameless. Do you understand _now_? Your fellow Warden knows this, which is why he trusts me. I have no reason to bide my time, because _every_ moment is my moment."

He stepped back and sheathed his weapons, watching Alistair carefully in case he decided to take his demonstration personally. "Or I need do nothing. The Grey Wardens face mortal peril at every turn; if I stay my blade, death will still likely find you without any effort on my part whatsoever. You would have lost your comrade in the Dead Trenches, were it not for me; let us not forget that."

"I. Don't. Forget." Alistair gritted out through clenched teeth.

The two men glared at each other. Inwardly, Zevran cursed Morrigan. '_A lifetime to earn my regrets in Antiva, but only a few months to begin accumulating them here in Ferelden.__ Ed ancora ballo alla sua aria. Sono uno sciocco, o è._' It was the assassin who looked away first. "A mistake. One I will not be repeating."

It wasn't an apology, but however the human Warden interpreted it, the answer sufficed. "You're _positive_ you know where to find him?"

"Reasonably certain."

"Fine then. I'll go to dinner and pretend we're not all doomed for an hour or two; I'll talk about cheese, drink wine and kick Morrigan under the table and pretend it was Oghren. And hey, if I have trouble smiling, I'll just imagine that washer woman poking you with her stick." The idea seemed to cheer Alistair considerably, dissolving his earlier animosity. "Just don't make me send out a search party for the pair of you."

When he stepped through the enormous doors that blockaded the entrance to the dwarven city, Zevran couldn't find a word in any language he knew to describe the sensation. Cold wasn't sufficient; it didn't capture the penetrating nature of the wintry air. He had passed the dwarves who normally stood sentinel here – they were inside, clustered around one of the pitch-filled urns at the opposite end of the hallway. Their good-natured smiles told him he was on the right track; they might have questioned him otherwise or recommended he return to the city but if Sandor was outside, it only made sense someone would turn up to collect him.

'_It is such a burden, being right all the time._' Huddled against the plinth in the center of the square, the elven Warden's goldenrod shirt was a gaudy reflection on a sheet of ice. Sandor's head rested against the squat pillar and in the absolute silence, it was difficult to believe the other elf wasn't frozen like the rest of the landscape, until he shook his head, presumably to rid it of a few stray snowflakes but at this distance, Zevran couldn't be sure.

Sandor had to have heard his approach; the assassin had no practice concealing his footfalls in conditions such as these, even as he tried to follow in the elven Warden's footprints to minimize the sound. The frigid temperature pulled the breath from his lungs in frosty clouds but he couldn't form them into shapes like _tabaco _smoke_._ Reaching the center of the square, rather than sitting on the ground, Zevran hopped up and straddled the sundial, shifting until he found a comfortable position, although every inch of bare skin touching the icy stone made him wince.

Once settled though, there was still the matter of speaking, which neither elf had done yet. Foremost in Zevran's mind was to appeal to the mage to come indoors – outside too long, improperly dressed, it was the Maker's blessing he wasn't ill – until, '_I am a Crow, not a mother hen._' Instead, he said, "I have never seen snow up close. Hail on occasion, but Antiva City, she is usually warm even when it rains. To the west are the Hundred Pillars; I am told they are towering monoliths in the desert, some of which are so precariously balanced to be in danger of toppling over at the slightest breeze. On a clear day, from the rooftops of my city, you might glimpse The White Spire far to the north but at such a distance it looks as though the mountain is merely whitewashed. Once, on a particularly blasphemous dare, I scaled the openwork atop Our Lady Queen of Martyrs chantry and so had a better view, and have, a few times since, imagined what it must be like to go to such a place." He chuckled. "I am pleased to say that my visit _here_ has cured me of any such desire to travel _there_ in the future; I do not think there are any accommodating dwarven cities where I might take refuge afterwards, once I have had my fill of the weather. I am certain I will later react to the memory of this glorious panorama with reverent awe – once I am not quite so cold."

When Sandor didn't respond, he prompted, "Do you have any books on the subject of the Frostbacks? Doubtless they have their share of entertaining legends, yes?"

"I did." Despite the temperature, with another one of Morrigan's claims confirmed, the assassin was more inclined to be patient and was rewarded a minute later. "It's said that, long ago when the world was young, Korth the Mountain Father kept his throne at the center of the world – at the peak of Belenas, from which he could see all corners of the earth and sky. He watched over all, and saw strong men become weak, brave men grow cowardly and wise men turn foolish for love. Appalled, he devised a plan: he must remove his heart, so he might never be betrayed in the same way. He took it out, sealed it in a golden cask, buried it in the earth and raised around it the fiercest mountains – the Frostbacks – to guard it forever."

"A visionary. Would that we each had the power to do the same."

"Yes…" Vapor trailed upward from the other elf's seated position and the Antivan imagined snatching it out of the air, the word frozen and his to keep. "Why are you here, Zevran?"

"I was brought here by your rather taciturn Teryn Loghain for the sole purpose of–" A disgusted _tch_ cut him off. '_I will lay the blame at Alistair's feet; if he chooses to take umbrage at the intrusion upon his solitude, I am thusly absolved._' His mouth apparently wasn't in accord with this plan, because he found himself saying, "An invitation – to dine with me, tonight. Provisions have already been made; I will be terribly insulted if you say no. But why would you wish to? I am a delightful supper companion and promise to adhere faithfully to the truth in any story I tell you this evening."

There was a scrabbling _crunch_ as Sandor gained his feet and faced the Antivan, "I…" but he hesitated and did not finish his reply.

"Surely you do not believe I mean to do you harm? Moreover, it would place me as the only suspect were a mishap to befall you." Zevran's tired of having this same conversation, especially since he knew that was precisely what his elven counterpart did _not_ think. It was, however, an easy fallback, providing a cover as he studied the mage's face.

What skin was visible – Sandor's neck and hands too, Zevran noticed – were crisscrossed with large patches of tiny, symmetrical lines; the scrapes already clotted and beginning to scab over. From crawling around in tunnels, the assassin might expect abrasions on the other elf's hands and knees but their uniform shape and placement presumably all over his body spoke of a different source. '_And I thanked her and paid her twenty gold._' He had not believed the washerwoman would literally have scrubbed the mage raw due to prejudices associated with an antiquated caste system, but the proof stood before him.

"I'm just not very hungry."

"Ah. You did not work up an appetite today? Were _I_ involved in any clandestine survey requiring physical exertion, I might by now even find camp fare palatable. But you have spent the day in the Shaperate, reading, no doubt or–"

Sandor huffed in exasperation, "Do you ever _stop_?"

"I heard that word on many occasions in Antiva City; only the exact phrase being used always included 'don't'."

The elven Warden glossed over the comment, "Who else knows besides you? Don't say–"

"Alistair," the two men said at once.

"Why did you – both of you – have to interfere?" the mage demanded. "We've got enough problems without you two borrowing more."

"Us? _We_ are not the ones who disobeyed the King, my friend; we were merely there to witness the aftermath."

Whatever answer Sandor had to that didn't get past his lips; the anger Zevran could tell was building drained out of him and he simply shook his head, dismayed. "So Alistair put you up to coming out here and finding out what happened? He doesn't need to worry; the Grey Wardens' reputation is intact. I wish…" He bent down, picked up a handful of snow, made a perfunctory attempt at packing it into the semblance of a ball and threw it; it dissipated before completing its arc. "I wish we'd never come here."

Slumping down, the elven Warden resumed his seat and launched into the story, unbidden. He lacked storytelling flare and it didn't contain the embellishments Zevran knew he would have added were the tale his to tell but the directness with which it was recounted kept the assassin riveted. He interrupted only once, to inquire why Sandor hadn't used his wisp to light his way. The mage cringingly admitted it hadn't occurred to him to do so and Zevran thought this sounded very typical of what he'd come to know of the other elf, '_He can amaze us all with his observance and insight but is himself oblivious to the obvious._'

"You know lyrium – raw lyrium – is deadly to mages? It might look like rock candy but if I took it into my head to lick it, it'd melt my tongue before I died, a raving lunatic. Processed isn't much better which is the reason I don't keep much of it around. Lyrium makes magic effortless; having it means always facing the temptation to take the easier path. Luckily," the mage laughed, but the cold made it sound brittle and humorless, "I'm no stranger to self-denial. Still, smuggling lyrium back into the Circle is risky for me – even discounting the illegality and what will happen if I'm caught. I decided Rogek knows the chance I'm taking, helping him. We need the money but what we've been promised is a trifle compared to the lyrium's true worth; the least he could do was show me the way. He called it _vilddjuret nedan_. I don't think," Sandor added, "we should ask anyone what it means, while we're here. Unless you know?"

"It does not involve eating, drinking, prostitutes or laundry – of the last I am certain – which renders it as much a mystery to me as to you," the Antivan confirmed.

"Well… There are a dozen ways to enter it in Dust Town alone. If I'd known what to look for, I wouldn't have needed his help in the first place. All those piles of rusted metal, stacked up to look like garbage? It is garbage, but it also blocks the holes – doorways in some cases." He went on to describe maneuvering around in the tunnels. "At the time, I thought it was odd the tunnels weren't uniform; I crouched and crawled through some and could walk upright in others. A few I couldn't touch the ceiling, even standing on my toes. Eventually, I started being able to distinguish between the darks – shades of gray to pitch black."

Zevran understood this as well; an assassin's life was shadows and darkness. He cupped his hands and blew into them – warming them – as the elven Warden continued. "I had to relieve myself a few times and I began to wonder about how much time passed – an hour? A day? Then the more I thought about _that_, I started worrying about food and water, which no – before you ask – I didn't bring. Maker only knows why it never occurred to me I might not find my way and I'd be stuck down there. Let's call it faith; I've had my fill of everything else today."

The assassin would have labeled it something else, but kept his peace. Sandor seemed aware of his plan's flaws and – provided he learned from them – Zevran didn't feel the need to add an additional admonition for the other elf's reckless behavior. "It was the sound that led me to them. All that machinery; you can hear it everywhere in Orzammar. It's always there, in the background, until you block it out – do whatever you can to ignore it..."

Movement made Zevran look down; Sandor had drawn his legs up to his chest and was resting his elbows on his knees, covering his ears with his forearms. The Antivan allowed him time to regain his composure before touching him lightly on the shoulder, "Who is 'them' my friend? What is down there that has so disturbed you?"

Even though Zevran kept his voice low, the mage started as if he'd forgotten he had an audience. Sandor twisted around, and just for a moment, the assassin saw fear in the other's eyes, until he blinked and looked away. When he spoke again, it was in a controlled monotone. "Golems. A dozen of them, each one on a different gear: turning, cranking, pulling and pushing. It's nothing I ever studied although I understand the concepts – water wheels, pulleys and the like – but the scale is massive. The only light was from their runic markings and… and their eyes."

"In the tunnels, it was black but having it just bright enough to see made it worse. I was filthy; I could feel the ash and grime on my hands and on my robe. And the golems were coated in it." He took a deep breath. "It didn't seem right, for them to be so dirty. I took off my robe and used it to try and clean them."

The scenario was absurd, yet Zevran believed every word. Sandor went on: he talked the golems as he worked, told how he'd met Caridin and understood the process they'd undergone. The mage rambled through the explanation, growing more agitated until he was back on his feet, pacing back and forth. Then, abruptly, he stopped. "They're like me, obeying whoever holds their control rod."

Given where his own thoughts had been for part of the day, Zevran considered the strangely phrased off-color comment at odds with the mage's demeanor. He was just a glib remark away from saying aloud the joke on the tip of his tongue when comprehension dawned; he faltered and offered awkwardly, "Would you like to talk about–"

"No."

"No. No, of course not, no." Perplexed into silence, Zevran concealed his discomfort by making a show of hopping off his seat and knocking the accumulated snow off the heels and toes of his boots. '_He parallels their plight to his encounter with the dragon, but __his troubles are not mine. Why do I…? It is what Alistair would have done and as I am here in his stead… yes._'

The elven Warden had wandered over to stand underneath the limply hanging pennants, strung in preparation for Wintersend, although to Zevran's understanding, the holiday held little meaning to the dwarves – theirs was an annual Proving, which the rest of Thedas incorporated into their own religious celebrations in the form of contests. Leliana had already regaled them with stories of the débutante balls in Orlais – mostly through wistful remembrances of the clothes – and Alistair told them about the tournament leading to his being chosen by Duncan to be a Grey Warden. Sandor, with no nostalgic recollections to share, had reluctantly agreed to Oghren and Zevran's suggestion he 'make a memory with them' and compete in the upcoming event.

"It used to be called Urthalis, did you know that? Dedicated to… I'm going to have to stay in my room until the Proving; if Alistair sees me like this, I don't know what he'll do. Something feckless and foolhardy, no doubt, and I'm afraid I've already used up our allotment." He made a half-hearted jump, swinging at and missing the bottom of the nearest banner; the mage landed unsteadily on the slick ground but managed to keep his balance. "I was on the sixth – no, seventh – golem, when that one spoke to me. Maybe the others forgot how to. It said, 'You are not a dwarf.' Golems were created so long ago; it could be they'd never _seen_ an elf. I tried to explain who I was, but it stopped what it was doing – pulling on a chain thicker than my leg – and grabbed me. We went through I don't know how many passageways – now I know why some were bigger than others. A struggle seemed futile; I think if I'd fallen, it would have kept going, even if it ripped off my arm. As it turned out, it just wanted to be rid of me – or this one had a latent command regarding intruders – but it'd have been nice if it'd let me put my robe back on before it dragged me through half the city. We got to the Diamond Quarter and it released me. At least I didn't have to walk into the palace in my smallclothes. The rest, I assume you know."

Sandor didn't see the assassin's nod but Zevran knew it hardly mattered; he didn't think the story had been for his benefit. When the elven Warden turned around, the anxiety and strain his face showed minutes before was gone, replaced by a rueful half-smile. "I'm not much of a Grey Warden, I'm afraid. I can't help the golems – I'm not even certain I can save myself - and I doubt Garahel was ever hauled _anywhere_ half-naked."

'_Hmm. Just scars and nothing more, eh, my friend? Ignore them and they will go away? Very well._' A final tap dislodged the last of the clinging ice from the tip of his boot and Zevran replied with a chuckle, "Oh, I do not know about _that_. If the tales I have heard about him are true, it seems more likely any hauling to be done took place completely in the nude." He beckoned and Sandor joined him; they walked back towards the Orzammar entrance, with the occasional scrape of leather against stone as the mage kicked out at the few inches of snow along their path. "Do not worry, my Grey Warden - in no time at all, we will have the women blushing and throwing garlands at your feet."

"If I wanted that, I'd just stand in Alistair's shadow."

After so much seriousness, it felt good to laugh, even if it held a slightly maniac edge and might not have been as natural as the Antivan wished. "Do not discount yourself quite so readily – after all, it is Alistair who stands in _my_ shadow so there may yet be hope for you. As to the rest, well…" …" Sandor tugged on the massive door handle but it refused to budge until Zevran lent his strength to the endeavor; it opened with a warm gust of air. "Speak to King Bhelen about their circumstance; surely an impassioned plea from a Grey Warden will sway him. It would not go amiss in my mind to mention your mistreatment at the hands of one of his servants either. Such a thing should not be permitted, regardless of class prejudices, and certainly not enacted upon a guest of his household."

"Zevran," Sandor said, as he indicated the assassin should proceed him – a courtesy Zevran was grateful for, as he was beginning to shiver, "our welcome in Orzammar will last only as long as any interfering we do follows the Aeducan agenda. Who do you think ordered this done to me?"

* * *

Author's Note: Wow, this chapter really did get a bit away from S, Z and I (actually just me, if S&Z had their way, they'd probably still be talking [among other things]). This is what comes from trying to make sense of lava and people living in close proximity to same. Combine that with two prompts in the Zevran adoration thread on the Bioware Social site courtesy of **Corker** (Oghren) & **Raidho** (Thedan holidays) and the result is this currently unedited monstrosity. As I've been working on this for quite some time (two months, give or take, with allowances for the holidays and two other side projects), editing will take place in a few days, when I can look at it with a fresh perspective (so if there's typos or other glaring errors - misplaced commas, overused words, spelling Orzammar five different ways... I humbly beg your forgiveness). I'd like to potentially ditch some excess hases and thats and ings. Frightening to say it might not even be all words being taken _away_; there are still two extra pages in my original .docx version - chunks I cut out as I wrote which might worm their way back in.

Too, I'd be lying if I said that the plight of the golems in Orzammar didn't draw some inspiration from Terry Pratchett and his _Feet of Clay_ and the Moist Von Lipwig story arc of _Going Postal_ and _Making Money_ involving the Golem Trust. Don't look for Sandor to be playing the part of Adora Belle Dearheart anytime soon, however. You also might notice a dash of Gimli thrown in for good measure, if only because I don't feel writing dwarves to be my strong suit and a little Indiana Jones because who doesn't like Indiana Jones? Oh, and some White Christmas. Maker, I love that movie - you know the part I mean. And yes, this chapter does establish my story _Orzammar Blues_ as part of my canon (does that make it parallel canon? I have no idea. Separate yet related makes it something but it's 4am and I'm too tired to figure out its proper name).

One final piece of good news (to me, anyway), I have set aside a bit of money each month to commission scenes from Power of Blood. Some illustrations are finished and just awaiting their chapters to be posted.

S, Z and I thank you for taking the time to read this chapter. If you're so inclined, feel free to review (a critique is just as valued as praise). Those of you who have reviewed in the past: **Dreamer In Silico**, **jenovan**, **Raidho**, **TanithAeyrs**, **Nightsfury**, **Andali**, **Charnia**, **Amara Wil Fren**, **sami jo** and **Tarante11a **- I've never said it, but thank you. I don't handle praise well and all of you have been more than kind.

I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).


	5. Seacrest

The town was called Seacrest or Seaside, "_Bespeaking the obvious that it lies near the ocean, as if the smell, sound or view were not enough,_" — Zevran couldn't remember the exact name. The companions agreed on a small detour to re-supply before heading to Redcliffe Castle, the Grey Wardens' final destination before trying to face Loghain and the Blight head on. Alistair had been campaigning for the visit to Redcliffe for some time, but now it was to be their next stop and the young templar seemed oddly reluctant to proceed. It was on his suggestion they postponed continuing onward, which was the initial plan.

The air's briny scent reminded him of home. Larger than the fishing village Zevran had envisioned, it boasted an actual quay rather than the bollards usually used for simple subsistence living and enough inns that the group was spoiled for choice. The Antivan herded the company away from an establishment called 'The Mackerel's Crib,' the placard outside showed an image of a large fish tucked into a bassinet, its tail hanging over the side. Rusty his cant might be, but Zevran didn't think he was wrong in his guess about what sort of lodging it provided. Room and board they could probably get, but it would be charged for by the hour, not the night. There was another sign featuring a pictorial of one of the pig creatures from Orzammar, which Zevran rejected for the same reason. Thinking it was an indication of the fare being served within, Oghren objected before being dragged away under protest. Zevran might have misunderstood — connotations in Ferelden _were_ vastly different to Antiva — but he wasn't sure it was worth the risk.

So now the company was housed at 'The Sooty Tern,' run by a hatchet-faced old woman, who seemed determined to find fault and charge them extra for any inconvenience they might put her to. Even Alistair's boyish charm had no effect and Zevran couldn't work up the willpower to make the attempt. Strangely, the mabari took to her immediately and it was the dog's presence that had convinced her to allow them to stay. While they were negotiating for their rooms, the hound slunk off and returned minutes later with a large rat in its jaws. This elicited a squeal of disgust from Leliana and a laugh out of Morrigan — probably out of spite for the other — but the crone patted the beast on the head and after that, a price was quickly settled upon.

The group splintered after that, although all agreed to meet back at the public house in time for supper. The elves, however, elected to remain together. Sandor took the time to change out of his robes and the two spent the morning watching the ships come and go down at the wharf. Between them, they had only one purchase to show for the outing; cordage obtained from a quartermaster of one of the single-mast ships.

"Taking my request for rope seriously at last, I see," Zevran commented, as the silver changed hands. When Sandor requested the measure be doubled and passed over more coin, Zevran — to hide his laughter — had walked away; the outburst wouldn't be understood by any but his companion.

The used rigging, as Sandor explained on their way back, was for Perro. "He's suddenly started chewing everything in sight and I'm afraid he'll be after your boots next," which earned him an appalled look of horror from the assassin. "We're out of bones and Alistair suggested that a rope might work. Tie a few knots and smear some of Alistair's stew on it—"

"The dog is the only one who seems to willingly consume it," Zevran muttered.

"—and hopefully the problem is solved." Sandor concluded.

"But what could the extra possibly be used for?" the Antivan asked, mischievously.

The coil looped around the mage's arm several times and was at least as long as the elf was tall. "That's for me to know," the mage said with a smirk.

Zevran gave a theatrical sigh, "Ah, such a tease." They were again passing by 'The Nugging House.' The assassin wondered if Oghren had made his way back to it and was even now getting his fill of whatever was on the menu there. Draping an arm genially over Sandor's shoulder, he steered them back towards the center of town.

"Would you mind so terribly, my friend, if we seek out the blacksmith? The pocket stone I have is sufficient but to edge my steel properly a benched version would be better suited. We do not have access to such as often as I might like."

Sandor nodded his acquiescence and the two continued to walk. "How is it you know where you're going?"

"Hm. I do not, precisely. Consider it more of an educated guess." Zevran explained. "This place relies mostly on the ocean, yes? So, the town saw its beginnings stemming from the sea. As it expands outward," he gestured in the direction they were walking, south, "it would at some point want to reach one of your main roads, which would be… either the North Road or Imperial Highway? I am unsure which we are closest to, here. All subsequent expansion would take place," he released his hold on the mage to indicate west and east, "in the other directions because too far inland means the fisher folk become removed from their source of livelihood."

Zevran continued his discourse. "There must be a Chantry, of course, and given the number of elves we have seen, an area for them to congregate as well. Though, it may not be an Alienage walled off, as in the larger cities. Still, elves tend to divorce themselves from the humans when at all possible so their habitation is probably opposite that of the church. There is a square; you recall that," he searched for a suitably descriptive word, "charmingly provincial fountain we passed, with the mermaid? Use that as your center. Doubtful it is so cut and dried in terms of _actual_ direction - but sufficient enough to serve as a marker. Then, watch the flow of traffic to determine where your destination is likely to be."

Sandor didn't respond for a few minutes. "…West?"

The Antivan nodded. "Very good, _mago_. We are currently en route to the south, north lies behind us. More humans than elves go west. We shall turn you into an assassin yet."

"Oh? When do we get to the good part?"

Zevran chuckled. "The good part? Would that be the poisons? The sneaking around upon rooftops or learning to approach a mark undetected? The blade work? I am afraid you will need to be a bit more specific."

"The part," Sandor replied, nudging him in the ribs, "that involves _rope_."

"Oh, _that_. It is not something inherent in an assassin's skills... merely something complementary. But, if you wish to be trained in the basics, I can certainly show you. We _are_ still talking about being an assassin, no?" The mage started to put his arm back on Zevran's shoulder, but instead pulled on the braid at the back of his head. The assassin skipped forward a few steps and turned; walking backwards, facing the other elf.

"Most of what I have described is merely deduction and not all places we will visit end up being so conveniently placed upon the compass points. Antiva City, for example, is more of a maze, for she is set to trap the unwary. By design, I imagine. It is her nature." Zevran shrugged. "When in doubt there, you look to the sky and allow the spires to dictate your direction. Merchants style themselves as kings and princes and so their domains must reflect that. This implies you know your destination; better to have a guide if you are uncertain. Someone you trust, of course – a stranger could as easily lead you down a blind alley and slit your throat."

Recognizing he was talking of a hypothetical future that involved going to Antiva with the Warden, Zevran turned back around, falling into step with the other elf. More than simply wanting to return alone, he realized he wanted to take Sandor with him, provided it would not be too dangerous for them both. '_Everything changes, I suppose._' Zevran knew his own mind well enough to identify a twinge of worry when he felt it. That the Crows had made no other moves against him or the Fereldan Wardens was troubling. '_Perhaps they are yet biding their time to see what I will do._' Unless someone was observing them day and night, it was possible his motivations might remain a mystery to an outside observer. In any case, today was not the day to fret about it. There was nothing here to indicate that he should remain especially wary. Always alert for trouble, certainly, but behaving like a dog chasing its tail served no purpose.

They reached the square containing the fountain and turned down a lane to the west. Zevran's ears told him his assumption had been correct before his eyes confirmed it but nevertheless it felt good to be right. Too many of his life lessons seemed to go awry when trying to tutor the mage; more often than not Sandor would turn the tables except for those times when he was almost alarmingly naive. For all the remarks the elven Warden made about the assassin's hidden depths, he was finding Sandor had a fair number of his own; depths Zevran eagerly explored whenever the opening presented itself.

The shop, when they entered, did not fill Zevran with confidence. The smith was in the back of the forge, overseeing his striker. The older man held whatever was being worked on with tongs, indicating with a smaller hammer where the younger man should be swinging the larger one he held. _Tap tap bong, tap tap bong_. The apprentice did not even look up and the blacksmith only spared them a quick glance. Zevran took time to inspect the items on display, in order to gauge the man's skill, determining if he could trust him with handling his own weapons. Nothing in evidence showed the smithy possessed any particular gift with metal; he was adequate, no more, unless he stashed his finer work someplace out of sight. The man's ability might be hampered by a lack of better materials — Zevran could not tell without speaking to him.

When it became apparent the two elves were not planning on departing, the blacksmith finally disengaged and came over to them. He was robust - complexion ruddy from working in the extreme temperatures required; no facial hair to speak of and the little he had on his head was close cropped so he appeared nearly bald. Still wearing the apron and gloves to protect his skin from the swarf, he crossed his arms. "Well?"

Zevran liked the man less and less and was considering leaving without giving a reply, allowing his surly attitude to cost him the gold he might have earned by being a bit more polite. He was about to turn away, when Sandor spoke.

"I beg your pardon, ser. My master's not from Ferelden; he doesn't understand you. He's just arrived from Antiva on the King's Trident. When we disembarked, he requested that I find him a smith and they were kind enough down at the docks to direct me to you."

It took every ounce of control Zevran had to maintain an impassive mien as if he didn't understand the words the mage was speaking. He crossed his arms, mimicking the pose of the blacksmith, pinching the skin on the underside of the left as hard as he was able, focusing on the pain rather than the unfolding hilarity. While Sandor might not exactly resemble a servant, the rope he still carried lent weight to his claim about coming from the docks, '_Is the name of the ship genuine or part of this tale he is spinning? I had not thought to look._' That they both had facial tattoos — exotic and unusual here in Ferelden — also gave credence to the story, as did the assassin's own appearance, being armed and armored as he was.

Sandor leaned in, whispering, "What was it you wanted again?"

Zevran's forbearance from interruption served to indicate he was willing to play along. He answered, "Request an oilstone. If he has such a thing, he will understand."

"He is looking for an oilstone?" The elven Warden made his reply into a question.

"I have one," the smith said, then nodded, probably for Zevran's benefit. "He wants it for the weapons on his back? Let me see them, then."

Sandor turned and whispered, "He says…"

Zevran drew back from the mage; wrapped a hand around his upper arm and pulled him around so they were both turned slightly to the side. It enabled him to hide his smirk more successfully before putting his lips to the other's ear. "I can understand him, you realize? Because you say I cannot comprehend the language does not suddenly make it so."

"Oh, right. Sorry," Sandor apologized, as their hushed conversation continued.

The assassin wasn't the only one being forced to play a role here; Zevran couldn't let such a tantalizing opportunity pass him by. "Do not give me cause to dismiss you from my service then. The whole severance package is garbage, let me tell you. Without me, you would have nothing, not even the clothes on your back," before plucking meaningfully at top of the other elf's shirt. It probably looked as if the mage was being chastised, but between them it had completely different subtext. Zevran turned back to the man and with a flourish, drew his weapons, spinning them around quickly before presenting them — hilts first — to the smith.

The man took his Thorn, sighting down the edge of the blade before shaking his head. "No need, for this one. The edge is still sound. I've got honing steel that would do a world of good though, get it re-aligned." Handing back the dagger, he took the other and inspected it. "Now this one'll need the stone. Take about an hour, you can come back then."

Before Sandor could even speak when they conferred, Zevran was saying, "No, I wish to oversee him. That he does not charge me for sharpening on my Rose is all very fine and well but I have no wish to allow either blade out of my sight. Ask if he will consent to letting me hone it myself, while he works on the other. I know how to use such an instrument."

When Sandor conveyed Zevran's wishes to the blacksmith, the man looked doubtful. "He'll ruin it if he doesn't do it proper and that'd be a damn shame with something so fine."

Their portrayal of master and servant convinced the smith; he assumed Zevran wouldn't perform such a menial task himself. The pretence of words exchanged once more, then the assassin gestured that the rod should be brought forth for a demonstration. While this was going on, the apprentice ceased work and ambled over to join the smith. Now both men watched as, with exaggerated care, he braced the dagger against his torso and drew the honing steel towards the hilt. Having made evident his knowledge of proper technique, the blacksmith agreed to Zevran's demand but made the apprentice set up a table with a cloth so as to better hold the weapon stationary. Having a customer familiar with the care of their chosen tools did wonders for the man's personality; he became positively amiable. Satisfied with this arrangement, Zevran smiled, the best way to indicate his pleasure.

Sandor tapped him on the shoulder, "You have money, don't you?" When the other elf nodded, he said quickly, "Meet you at the fountain in an hour then. I'm going to see if I can find us something to eat."

Before Zevran could object, the mage was already saying, "Thank you, ser. My master is gratified by your largess. He's asked that I go find us lodgings for the night. When you are finished, just indicate how much is owed," Sandor held up his hands, "with your fingers. He knows how to count."

"Watch your tongue. Don't speak about your master as if he's a circus animal performing tricks. Of course he can count. I'd tell him exactly what you said if I knew… Anti-vian."

Zevran covered his mouth with his hand and bit down on his tongue, the laughter threatening again to expose them. '_Perhaps it is time to rethink another assassination attempt. Remaining quiet for an hour… I do not know if I am even that silent in my sleep._' Out loud, he said, "_Te conquistare, querido_," knowing neither Sandor nor the smithy would understand him, but he knew the stare he was giving the mage would be read as a promise of punishment yet to come.

"Good thing you don't and he doesn't then," and with a snicker and a half bow, the mage was out the door before he could be reprimanded by either.

"I'd beat him senseless, if he were mine," the blacksmith grumbled.

'_Have no worries on that account, my friend. I will at some point be doing exactly that, although I do not think that word means what you think it means,_' Zevran thought. '_How much __**can**__ be said without words, I wonder?_' Something just occurred to the assassin and he wondered if he could get the idea across to the smith; that he wished to be supplied with vellum and a stylus.

"Suppose he thinks he can get away with it, since you're foreign. Eh?" Zevran tugged on his sleeve, so his attention was back on the Antivan. Drawing a silver piece out of his pouch, Zevran laid it on the table prepared for his dagger and then flattened his hand and pantomimed writing on it. It took the man a moment before he called his apprentice over. "Einion. Fellow wants some paper and something to write with. Hie off to the bookbinder and get him what he wants," picking up the coin and handing it to the younger man. "And bring back the change, mind!"

When Einion returned a few minutes later with the items, Zevran was surprised when the blacksmith tried to give him the copper remaining from the purchase. He pushed away the coin, to indicate it should be kept. Then, he began to sketch what it was he wanted - the smith watching over his shoulder. After a minute, when his drawing had taken shape, the man started to laugh. "For that one?" he said, jerking his head towards the door. Zevran nodded; the gesture obvious enough to indicate they were both referring to the elven Warden. Pointing at the picture, bobbing his head a few more times to show that yes, what the assassin wanted could be done, he said, "Yep, I think we can manage that. I'll get Ein working on it then send him out for the rest of what we need."

Zevran beamed.

Passing the time was not as bad as Zevran expected it to be. Rather than continue to play dumb, he began speaking in his native tongue, something he had not done, besides the odd word or two, since coming to Ferelden. Neither the blacksmith nor the apprentice seemed to mind they couldn't understand a word, letting him talk. Without the need to stay silent, the span went quickly. Once the assassin finished with his dagger, the blacksmith inspected his work — noting his approval with a hearty slap on Zevran's back — after which, the elf was allowed to watch the two men. Once his other blade was sharpened, the apprentice and smithy traded places - the older man working on the construct from the diagram and Einion taking both weapons and applying jeweler's rouge to them. Zevran's vanity took over, grinning when he imagined what he would look like in battle, his blades flashing. The polishing wasn't a luxury he'd allowed himself as a Crow; a weapon reflecting the light like a mirror was the last thing an assassin would want. But here, where the need for stealth was not always necessary and with the added likelihood that they would not remain that clean for long, he approved.

Finally, it was done. Zevran overpaid for the work, both for the humor unknowingly provided and in the hope the smith might be less likely to treat elves as nuisances in the future. He bowed out of the forge like a visiting dignitary, his package under one arm.

Back at the square Sandor was not in evidence, so Zevran sat on the edge of the fountain to wait. It was difficult to ascertain if a sufficient interval had passed — either he was early or the mage was late — but leaving might mean the two would miss each other in transit.

To pass the time, the Antivan twisted around, looking up at the statuary behind him. It was hideous, the sculptor having paid more attention to the detail of the fish portion than that of the woman; she more closely resembled a gulping carp, with no hint of the great beauty the aquatic myths supposedly possessed. The maid held a jug, large enough to cover the area where her breasts might have been, that she was tipping back into the basin. There was a suggestion of cleavage, but… Zevran shrugged, again reminded of the stark difference between his home and Ferelden. In Antiva City, such an effigy would not be holding an object that so hid her feminine charms – it was even more probable that the water would be flowing from her nipples.

Rather than stare at the mermaid any longer, although it did seem to hold a strange attraction, Zevran looked around the square. Some people loitered but few were coming and going now. It was long enough past noontime but not quite evening when folk would be heading home for the day. '_I wonder what detains him.'_ His foot, of its own accord, tapped with impatience. The assassin considered the possibility that the mage had located the bookseller and wondered if he should go investigate to be sure. If anything was certain to capture Sandor's attention for an extended period — long enough to miss their rendezvous — it would be books. There was also a chance the elven Warden had become lost. Zevran hoped that was not what had happened; returning to the inn without the other elf in tow would lead to all sorts of complications, ones which he would bear the brunt of, for allowing it to happen. He could hear Alistair in his head, demanding, '_Zevran, what were you thinking?_'

He deliberated the decision to backtrack and see if Sandor had gone instead to the forge and from there check the bookseller, when something distracted him. An elven couple sitting opposite him — some distance away and talking earnestly with one another — both finally stood, the man helping the woman to her feet. As they were leaving the square hand in hand, their departure was noted by a trio of human males — one setting off after the pair; the other two trailing behind a few moments later. Zevran scowled. The looks on the men's faces were not kindly disposed; their decision to head the same way no mere coincidence. '_Bored? Cruel? Need there be a reason?_' Gravel was strewn about the plaza and he nudged at the nearest small stone with the toe of his boot, pushed it around before kicking it away. After his available supply of rocks was exhausted, Zevran rose and drummed a heel against the fountain's cistern. He disliked being made to wait — because of the forced inactivity — even if the reason for delay proved valid.

An exclamation coming from the direction all five had taken prompted him into action. He paused only long enough to pick up his package as he moved towards the alley and spying a barrel pushed up against the wall — after confirming it was empty — dropped the bundle inside so he could recover it later.

Zevran had not thought to put his newly shined and sharpened blades to use so soon. Concealing himself as he had been trained to do — slipping into the extending shadows — he entered the lane while keeping his back to the wall. The assassin saw five figures and a single one further along the passage.

It was Sandor. He always seemed to draw trouble like a magnet.

Moving closer, Zevran saw what had prompted the cry he had heard in the main square.

The mage saw whatever was transpiring and to indicate his disapproval, used the only weapon at his immediate disposal to halt it – a piece of fruit. The makeshift missile lay on the ground, having missed the intended target. Its' odd shape — a pear the assassin saw — or his poor aim had prevented it from being effective. Regardless, the pear served its purpose; drawing the men's attention away from the elven couple.

Two of the men started towards the mage while one remained with the elven couple, both of whom looked terrified. '_Run,_' Zevran thought angrily. '_Strike at your opponent and flee! Do not cower like timid rabbits feeling the breath of the fox upon your necks!_" The man wasn't even holding them. But Zevran had no time to spare for them in their predicament if they were unwilling to help themselves.

One of the men could be heard clearly as he spoke to Sandor. "Think you're going to even the odds, now it's three on three? I don't think those two are gonna come to your rescue, hero. Bet they won't even make a peep while we pound you into the dust." The one who remained silent cracked his knuckles, the sound like someone crushing a small bird, tiny bones snapping.

Despite their threatening posture, the mage looked unconcerned but Zevran wasn't fooled. In many ways, the two elves were very alike, perhaps in no way more similar than in their ability to _deflect_. This was also why the mage and the assassin complimented one another so well in combat; Sandor's defense almost as impregnable as the shield Alistair used coupled with the Zevran's own lethality made them a devastating combination. There were times when the Antivan wondered if it was not the magic, but Zevran himself the Warden wielded as a weapon, since aside from the stave Sandor usually shouldered, Zevran had never seen him use so much as a flicker of fire or a flurry of frost to attack with.

Closer now, Zevran was almost ready for the first move. He wished for way to alert the other elf to his presence, but given their proximity to the square, Sandor might assume he was already concealed somewhere, prepared to strike, just as he was.

"Leave," Sandor ordered.

The one who had cracked his knuckles spoke now. "Hear that, Borys?" His hair was so blonde as to be almost white and made him look older than his years. "Well, we don't have anywhere else we need to be right now. Just your bad luck, knife-ear, that you didn't have anywhere else _you_ needed to be."

"I do, and you're blocking my way." As soon as the mage said the word _do_ his spell wisp appeared, circling his head. The two men watched it warily.

'_Clever, my Grey Warden, very clever._' If Sandor could intimidate the men into going of their own accord, there might not be a need for bloodshed, which, Zevran realized, was preferable to explaining to the authorities why these men had been killed in the street.

"Aw, it ain't nothing but a pretty little fairy light," the one called Borys said. "Think Ludie'd like it as a gift? Might be she'd be a bit more willing to spread her legs at a discount!" He took a step forward, reaching for it.

And fell to the ground with a grunt. When his friend leaned over to help him, he too slipped, landing on top of Borys, knocking the wind out of him. The third man — who was still standing sentinel over the elven couple — started forward upon seeing the other two drop to the ground as if they'd been punched.

"STOP!" Sandor said, pointing at the one coming down the alley. "I don't want to harm any of you, but I will. Right now all that's injured is your pride. Do you really want to see what else I can do?" The tiny light came to rest on the back of the Warden's hand, where he rolled it between his fingers like a marble before releasing it, allowing it to become airborne once more.

"Mage…" The pale-haired man managed to disentangle himself from the other but was unable to regain his footing due to the grease. Instead, he was forced to retreat on all fours, like a penitent man in front of his god.

He growled to his comrades, unapologetic, "Better sport to be had somewhere else, anyhow." He finally cleared the greasy ground and got to his feet although Borys was still struggling. "Damn you… Help me, Teodor!" Teodor, now identified, rushed forward and helped the nameless blonde haul on Borys' legs, drawing him out of the oily patch of earth. Once all three were standing, the nameless man, emboldened by the distance from the mage, spat at him though he wasn't close enough for it to hit the elf. "Templars'll find you then the Chantry'll burn you alive. You'll get yours, knife-ear." But that was as far as any of them would go, Teodor already retreating back the way they had come, the other two quick to follow.

Zevran remained still but almost cut the men down for that final insult, hating that a peaceful solution had been reached, even though it was the wisest course of action.

Vanishing the harmless light, Sandor walked down the street — strode by Zevran without seeing him — and approached the elven couple, who looked only slightly less frightened as he came nearer. "Are you alright? They didn't hurt you?"

The man drew his arms protectively around the smaller elven woman, "Just… just leave us alone."

Whatever reaction Sandor was expecting, this wasn't it and he took a step backwards. "I didn't mean… I was just trying to help you…"

"We didn't ask for your help!" The woman said before burying her face in her man's shoulder.

Sandor looked crestfallen. Zevran knew the Warden wouldn't expect thanks for the deed, but the rancor he now received was equally unexpected. He finally stammered out, "I'm… I'm sorry."

Braver now in the face of a foe who obviously had no intention of hurting them, the man shepherded the woman past Sandor, muttering "Unnatural," — loud enough to be by design so the mage should hear.

Sandor's shoulders slumped, but still he turned to watch them go, until they went around a corner and out of sight. He remained there, staring; then with a furious motion, flung the piece of fruit he still held at the wall opposite him, where it splattered before sliding to the ground. The other pear still in the road where he'd hurled it; as the mage walked by, heading out into the square, he stepped on it, grinding it into the dirt.

Zevran wasn't sure how to feel. He knew Sandor wouldn't want to be pitied, wouldn't want his companion to feel sympathy or sorrow over what he witnessed. '_It is a thankless job he has and even if we all manage to survive, what awaits him after?_' The elven Warden rarely introduced himself as such, even when pleading for aid from those who the Grey Wardens held treaties with. He did not allow it to define him, as the templar did. He was rightfully (or so the Antivan thought) proud of his magical ability — a talent he had gone so far as to honor with the ink on his face — but even without the markings, being a mage still forever labeled him in a way he could never escape.

Returning to the Circle Tower was a choice; where the lure of the open sky meant the ground was hundreds of feet below and the first step taken was death. Unable to disappear — as the assassin could if he wanted to — unless he coveted living the life of a hermit and even then he might be hunted like a rabid animal were he to attempt it. Feared or hated by most — even those of his own race — what sort of life was that? '_Lonely,_' Zevran thought, '_it must be very lonely._'

Now it would be Sandor who was waiting on _him_ in the square.

Creeping back towards the common, Zevran spotted the elven Warden facing the fountain, gazing, as he had been, at the dreadful visage of the mermaid. Since Sandor wasn't even looking in his direction, it was easy enough to retrieve the parcel from where he had stashed it and approach the other elf from behind.

"Have you found another to replace me, _amante_?" He kept his tone lighthearted. Sandor turned around, his face somber and remained so even upon seeing the Antivan, "Such a lusty stare you give her, I should, perhaps, be jealous?"

Sandor's reply was a slow shake of the head but he confined himself to one word. "No."

Zevran chuckled, "And glad I am to hear it. I have not kept you waiting long?" He tried to draw Sandor back to the cheerfulness of earlier in the day. "You have divested yourself of the rope, I see."

"I took it back to the inn. I found the marketplace too," gesturing to the east, "but…" a momentary hesitation "there wasn't anything but fish and I didn't think you'd want to eat that raw."

Sandor had probably been elated he managed to locate both landmarks — the inn and the market — on his own and had returned to their meeting place unaided or without a search party needing to be sent out. A joy now smashed against the wall and crushed into pulp in the alley, turned into something Zevran knew he'd never hear about. "Indeed not. It is no matter; the lack will only serve to sharpen my appetite for whatever our delightful hostess is preparing for us for supper. I do hope for fish, however. Cod with peppers and onions, prawns basted with garlic, eels…" Seeing Sandor swallow several times when he mentioned eels, Zevran grinned. "I do not anticipate them actually being served, my friend. I would settle for — and be happy with — a chowder. But would you be so cruel as to deprive me of my dreams?"

"So long as I don't have to eat them..."

Zevran reached out to tug at a piece of hair that had fallen across Sandor's face. These brief moments of contact felt like unsatisfied cravings; then the assassin remembered the package under his arm — and how he planned to use it to assuage his hunger.

"Oh, do not worry _mago_. You are in these dreams as well, but _you_ are devouring something else entirely." The elven Warden's complexion tinged with red upon hearing that and Zevran laughed. Laughter came so easily when he was with Sandor; he wished the mage would seize upon the merriment — it would show the unpleasantness of the encounter was being banished from Sandor's thoughts.

Jumping onto the lip of the fountain and walking around the edge as if it were a balance beam, Zevran said, "Do you think you might lead us back to the 'Tern', my dear Warden? I fear all this talk of edible revelry has made me quite forget the way."

Sandor nodded, turning around to get his bearings before saying, still with a touch of uncertainty, "Over here, I think."

Following his lead — Zevran not caring if the direction was correct — they started walking. As they passed out of the square's confines, Zevran took Sandor's hand, interlocking his fingers with the mage's, glanced over and finally saw the smile he had been hoping for. It was enough.

* * *

Author's Note: I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).

I have set aside a bit of money each month to commission scenes from Power of Blood. Some illustrations are finished and just awaiting their chapters to be posted. I'm happy to say that a portion of Seacrest has been drawn by the talented Avionetca from deviantArt. I will update other chapters as I commission or their artwork is finished. The Seacrest piece can be found here:

avionetca . deviantart . com/#/d37jjpm (take out the extra spaces - for the life of me I cannot get this to save the html code for links, and it cuts it off if I just cut and paste so...)

S, Z and I thank you for taking the time to read this chapter. If you're so inclined, feel free to review (a critique is just as valued as praise)., but if you'd rather spend your time doing something more entertaining, I'd recommend you read the stories by **Tarante11a **and **jenovan**. Their work is brilliant and it is due in no small part to them any of Sandor and Zevran's story ever again saw the light of day. Both have been instrumental with their encouragement and advice (I am allowed to rest my head on their bosoms when I cry about their edits so it all works out). Their stories are what mine aspires to be. Hopefully I'll improve over time so their redlining is less onerous.


	6. Tea

He awoke to the sound of a waterfall; its roaring _shush_ muted his thoughts and made it hard to think through the noise. As Sandor opened his eyes, the rushing waters receded, until he identified the steady trickle of rainwater running into the barrel outside his window. Perro, upon hearing him stir, sprang onto the bed and wriggled forward; the mabari forced his master's hand past his muzzle and onto his head, until the elf obliged him with a brief scratch between his cropped ears.

Even if the rain hadn't given it away, Sandor didn't need to turn his head to the in order to confirm there'd be no travelling today. Prior to their arrival in Seacrest, brighter spring hues intermittently accompanied the sunrise; now, the dreary dawn light possessed a grayish cast instead, leeching the color from the floorboards and furniture so the wood looked sun-bleached.

Sandor stretched and, with difficulty, resisted the urge to roll over and go back to sleep. He didn't allow himself that luxury anymore; his dreams were no longer the refuge they'd been in the Tower. However, after the tension-inducing incidents of yesterday, coupled with Alistair's reluctance to continue on to Redcliffe, the thought of an entire _week_ in an actual bed was an attractive one. He doubted he'd have a hard time convincing the others, except perhaps Sten who seemed largely indifferent to any change in their circumstance. He privately believed the qunari never availed himself to beds when they were available and instead slept on the floor, but had yet to ask him, because he was certain of the enigmatic answer he'd receive – which would be no answer at all.

Scooting backwards, enough so his shoulders rested against the crudely carved headboard, the mage gave a sharp snap of his fingers. "Practice, practice!" Alerted by the combination of sound and command, the hound raised his head, ears pricked attentively. "Ready?" Eagerly, the mabari stood. One paw sank further into the saggy straw mattress; the unexpectedly uneven footing made Perro shift nervously before hopping sideways where he landed heavily on Sandor's legs. The elf struggled to sit up and free himself from the pressing weight of his dog, but the sheets and homespun blanket – already twined and tangled about his ankles from his restless tossing and turning in the night – impeded his progress. The bed's aged timbers creaked ominously and man and beast froze, anticipating a collapse that – fortunately – did not happen.

Carefully, Sandor drew his legs out from under the animal; Perro remained motionless until the elf sat, cross-legged, in front of him. Then, tentatively, the mabari raised a foot and placed on the mage's knee. "I think we'll wait until later - or at least until we're outside." With an agreeable _whuff_ that showered Sandor's face in a fine mist of mucus and drool, the beast slobbered affection on his master, until the elf wrapped his arms around the dog's thickly muscled neck and wrestled him out of bed, the two rolling onto the floor with a dull _whump_.

Oghren's lusty snores greeted the elven Warden as he descended into the common room, jumping off the last step of the staircase onto the rush-covered floor. Absent from last night's supper, Sandor had then supposed the dwarf returned to the bypassed brothel and tersely vetoed the proposed search for him once the group finished eating. Apparently, Oghren made it back to their lodgings in one piece – probably poorer for it – but wasn't up to the task of finding his room in the dark. Their landlady stood over him, busily prodding the banked coals back to life with a poker and Sandor's relief over his return was short-lived when he saw him furtively crack one eye open to ogle the view above. '_Being a Grey Warden won't kill me. I'll have died from the stress long before then._'

Luckily, Perro solved his problem: the mabari immediately padded over and – taking the side closest to the fireplace – flopped down next to the dwarf. The dog stretched out and then rolled over, pushing the man sideways and effectively obstructing his view. Unable to shove Perro without giving himself away – and thusly risking the woman's wrath and potentially the iron rod in her hand – Oghren closed his eyes and soon the snores began in earnest. The animal yawned widely enough that Sandor could have stuck his head between the mabari's jaws; it was the closest thing Perro had to a laugh.

Unaware of the dwarf's voyeurism, the inn's proprietor thrust a log on top of the glowing coals; a few wayward sparks flew onto the stained, threadbare rug in front of the hearth. Her acknowledgement of his arrival did not offer any recognition of his status as a Grey Warden. "Won't be nothin' to offend the Prince at _this_ meal – unless he objects to the way I fix my kedgeree. If'n he does, he's stuck with porridge, eggs, sausages, bacon, toast, tomatoes and sweet buns. Which don't cook themselves, I might add, so you'll do me the favor of fetching water from the well out back. It needs to be boiling in the cauldron yonder – and get the kettle ready for when I say."

'_Maker, there'll be no end to it if he hears her call him that_.' Hers was an order, not a request but Sandor wasn't inclined to argue and ducked his head in a show of polite servility; lugging a few buckets back and forth was a modest penance for the antics at last night's supper.

The two elves were late getting back, but not so late as to miss dinner – just long enough so the inn cleared of any regular customers. Alistair looked predictably relieved when they returned and while Zevran relaxed onto one of the wormy driftwood benches and launched into the tale of their experience with the blacksmith, Sandor had collapsed next to Perro whose ebullient greeting further buoyed his mood.

"And then," the Antivan pouted, "he left me there with no means to communicate! It was cruelly done, _mago_ – had I been obliged to resort to crudely stamping my foot like a _sos vylia_, I might never have forgiven you."

Engaged in mock combat with his mabari on the floor, Sandor halted it with a murmured word and extricated his arm from Perro's mouth. After a cursory inspection of his sleeve's fabric – damp but otherwise intact – he tilted his head back until he could see Zevran – upside down from his point of view – reclining easily against the table. The assassin obviously expected his comment to draw the mage's attention and gave him a good-humored wink.

"Does anyone else find it ironic he's talking… about _not_ talking? Just me then?"

"Alistair," Zevran replied silkily, "how did you occupy _your_ hours today?" His inquiry was deceptively innocent but Sandor recognized the waggish lilt; it foreshadowed payback for the human Warden's sarcasm. "Were you yet successful in returning Morrigan's undergarments to her pack? As I have said before, if she has not noticed their absence by now, it will do no one any harm for you to keep them."

The Templar's pre-pubescent, octave-skipping yelp, "What?" nearly matched the apostate's outraged screech. "I don't have her…" Red-faced, his indignant denial, "I **don't** have your…" didn't placate her and she stomped upstairs. The angry _thud_ of her footsteps echoed hollowly above them.

Poised to follow Morrigan upstairs, likely in an attempt to prove himself innocent of Zevran's claim, the arrival of a serving woman laden down with dishes and utensils spared Alistair further embarrassment – and Zevran from any reprisals. The human Warden took a seat as far from the assassin as he could manage; Wynne chose a spot next to Alistair and shot Zevran a reproachful look as she sat down. Leliana's intervention – posing a pointed question to the older mage regarding her interpretation of a specific verse in the Chant of Light – didn't prevent the Antivan from blowing Wynne a kiss and his cheeky grin announced he was up to the challenge of fielding Wynne's glares all night, if need be. However, Alistair proved the lesser of two evils when Zevran realized he would be sitting next to Morrigan if and when she returned, so, hauling on Sandor's arm, he moved them down so Sten would be between them.

Out came trays of boiled new potatoes, several loaves of crusty bread and a large, cast-iron pot of olive green soup (which to Sandor resembled nothing more than mushy peas). Anticipation had Zevran squirming in his seat; he caught the elven Warden's eye, leaned in and whispered, "Eels," with such longing that Sandor shivered.

The innkeeper brought out the final plate; she dropped it unceremoniously onto the table and stood back with her hands on her hips, as if she expected them to fall upon her food like a pack of winter-starved wolves.

"_What_ is **that**?" It was difficult to imagine a way in which the assassin might sound more disgusted; his lip curled in repugnance as he gazed at the platter.

Sten stated the obvious for them all. "Fish."

It _was_ fish, or at least appeared to be fish in a form Sandor recognized – not that he was in disagreement with Zevran's unspoken sentiment about its appeal. His appetite since becoming a Grey Warden was unpredictable – he could eat oatmeal at every meal for three days straight and wake up the next morning to find the texture and smell revolting. Erratic cravings aside, he'd never been partial to fried fish in the Tower. Pounded into rough squares, the thickly battered fillets were piled up unappetizingly on the heavy stoneware plate; their presentation didn't deter Alistair who reached out to spear one with his fork.

Zevran rapped him on the knuckles with his spoon and the Templar withdrew his hand. "Tell me, my friend," Zevran said, dangling one of the pieces between thumb and forefinger, "what sort of fish would this be? I am not so widely travelled about Ferelden and so do not know all of your land's native species."

Irritably, still rubbing the spot where the Antivan struck him, Alistair answered, "I don't know… the swimming kind?"

Banter between the two men was a familiar fixture but the curt edge in Zevran's voice belied his expression; there was nothing good-natured about the smile now.

"Ah, the _swimming_ kind, of course. They are unique to Ferelden, these _swimming_ kinds of fishes? Their shingle shape is quite unique, with oily scales the color of earwax." He wiggled it back and forth, as if the creature might swim through air. "Tell me, my lovely woman," he addressed his next question to the inn's proprietor, "what gives them such a… savory aroma?"

"Lard," she replied flatly.

"Lard. Yes. Indeed, your description makes the mouth water."

Leliana interjected. "Zevran, I'm sure it will be fine." she assured him.

"My dear, fine is a word one uses to describe things which are superior or of the best quality." The assassin picked up the platter as he rose from his seat. "**Fine** is grilled swordfish with caper sauce. **Fine** is stuffed mussels. **Fine** is _bacalhau_ – for which there are as many recipes as the year is long." Holding it aloft, he stepped backwards, off the bench and walked towards the inn's entrance. "I have tolerated many things since coming to Ferelden: the freezing temperatures, the ceaseless rain, the lack of amenities – a bed, a warm b-… bath." Supporting the tray on one shoulder, Zevran used his now free hand to open the door. "I do not think it too much to ask that my fish smells and appears as if it actually came from the sea!" and, grasping the tray, he heaved them, like he was emptying a chamber pot, out into the street.

No one said a word when he stormed back to the table and slammed the plate down with a snarl. Muttering fiercely in a steady stream of unintelligible Antivan, Zevran mimicked Morrigan's earlier departure up the stairway. Sandor winced when he heard a door slam.

The innkeeper's eyebrows formed an annoyed 'v' and – given how the day had progressed – the mage blurted out the first thing that popped into his head to serve as an explanation for why dinner just sailed out the door. "Please forgive his Highness. He's just arrived from Antiva and isn't familiar with Fereldan cooking." Sandor didn't need to look at his companions to know their reactions to his lie; he could only gaze at the old woman and hope his own expression was earnest enough to make it believable.

"Well…" His sincere, doe-eyed stare had the desired effect – they would not need to seek out new accommodations tonight. Sandor blinked and sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker. Either Zevran's behavior reconciled with her concept of how royalty behaved or her own practicality recognized an opportunity and made her willing to forgive the dishonesty. "I don't go holdin' with these foreign ways. An elf prince – I've never heard the like. If there's to be special fare, no one made mention of it to _me_ – and no payment neither. I'll have extra for it or he eats like everyone else. Or doesn't eat – makes no never mind to me." She turned on her heel and re-entered the kitchen; the door banged shut behind her.

Leliana picked up a loaf of bread. Cutting it into slices, she passed them around the table in silence, and then ladled out the soup. Zevran's earlier words, '_Would you be so cruel as to deprive me of my dreams?_' repeated themselves over and over in the mage's head, until Sten accidentally jostled his elbow. Sandor found he wasn't hungry, but when the tray of potatoes came his way, he forced himself to scoop several onto his plate. He split their ruddy skins with a quick press of his fork and dragged the utensil back and forth through the pale furrows its tines left behind, resigning himself to an uncomfortable meal punctuated with awkward pauses as the rest of the group tried to fill the void Zevran left behind.

"You shouldn't make excuses for his behavior, Warden – especially if it requires you to be untruthful." Sandor looked up sharply. In between prim sips of her soup, Wynne's lips were fixed in a tight moue of disapproval. "There's also no reason to indulge his every whim. He should be grateful for what he's given."

His own temper flared. "He's homesick! It was all he could talk about today – that we were having fish for dinner." Metal clinked against clay as he stabbed furiously at the food on his plate. '_She'd understand him, if only she bothered to try._'

"We miss the Tower, but we don't act out and throw tantrums like petulant, spoiled children."

'_**You**__ might miss the Tower… but I __**never**__ want to go back._'

'_Besides,_' he thought, as he opened the door to a gust of brisk sea air (the pot, not unlike breakfast, wouldn't take care of itself), '_I'm not certain it __**was**__ a lie._'

Normally, the assassin expounded at length when asked about his exploits; even if the stories weren't wholly true, he was a consummate storyteller and he'd found an avid listener in Sandor. However, Zevran's suspiciously abridged version of the large-scale attack on Prince Azrin - his part made to sound inconsequential with falling out a window into the river, and then later rescued (and stripped) by urchins – set off warning bells in the mage's head. "It almost ended up putting a Crow on the throne, a commoner... but that is a whole different story." One Zevran never ended up telling him and perhaps this was why the remark stuck with the elven Warden, apparently enough for it to re-surface when under pressure.

Too early for seriously contemplating the outlandish idea of Zevran as royalty, he allowed his mind to wander. '_I wonder what kedgeree is._' Eventually, he dredged up a chantey they'd heard yesterday down at the wharf and began to hum as he worked; his memory refused to supply either intricate rhymes or accurate lyrics so he settled for what he could remember of the melody. It took several tries for him to gauge how much he could carry; the water slopped over the sides and he spilled the first bucket entirely, only barely managing to keep it from soaking him to the skin. The damp, salt-encrusted rope kept slipping through his fingers – he had the burns to show for it – and although the rain abated to a light drizzle, the wind whipped at his clothing so he was soon more wet than dry.

Once he completed the chore, it was time to re-negotiate the terms for the rest of their extended stay. It was more money than they could technically afford – the charge now included heated bathwater and an additional allowance for fresh seafood with the stipulation none of it was to be fried – but Sandor supposed he could find something to sell to help defray the extra expense. '_Maybe the necklace we found in the Tower?_' Hung on a chain of silver filigree, the ivory tooth was covered in delicate carvings of a ship weathering a storm at sea – just the sort of lucky sailor's charm a ship's captain or mate might covet. He wasn't given further time to ponder it; their dealings served only as a brief respite before the woman put him back to work, sitting by the fire and tending the oatmeal. The task tried his clothing out, but his arm began to ache from the repetitive motion of stirring and his bare skin felt scorched.

Eventually, other members of the company made their way downstairs. Without fail, everyone inquired about what he was doing and came over to inspect the cauldron's contents. No one mentioned yesterday's incidents. Alistair was alive; either Morrigan accounted for her smallclothes and believed the Templar innocent or else demonstrated remarkable largess in allowing him to keep them. Zevran seemed in his usual high spirits, whispering an invitation to a stroll after breakfast, "Foul weather, fair company, _mago_. You will join me?" Knowing how much the Antivan disliked the rain, Sandor knew this was the other elf's version of an apology and accepted with a nod.

Kedgeree, as it turned out, was an egg, fish and rice dish. Fortunately, the assassin did not object to its appearance and deemed it edible after sampling it. The smell of food roused Oghren out of his stupor and he joined them at the table. As the dwarf gulped down the food, he informed them of his whereabouts the night before – the whorehouse as the elven Warden had guessed – and his intention to return once he finished eating.

Pouring himself some tea, Sandor sighed quietly to himself when he realized their service lacked a milk pitcher. In the Tower, he habitually over-steeped his tea; absorbed in a particular passage or chapter in his book, by the time he remembered to strain the leaves, the liquid was as black as the kettle's bottom. Consequently, he'd gotten into the habit of taking milk and now couldn't drink it without, even if the brew was weak.

Meanwhile, Sten commandeered the plate of sweet rolls, and only Leliana managed to wheedle one from him, which Zevran whisked off her plate the moment she turned her head to respond to a question Alistair put to her.

"Zevran! Give that back!"

The Antivan held the roll just out of Leliana's reach when she leaned over to grab it. "My dear, your strategy proves ineffective. If _I_ possess something desired by another, this is how I encourage them." He began licking the top of the roll; his tongue slowly followed the cinnamon sugar swirls in the pastry.

Sandor stifled a moan with a hurried mouthful of oatmeal, followed by a burnt piece of bacon he chewed without tasting as he watched Zevran out of the corner of his eye. He shifted in his seat, trying vainly to adjust himself without being obvious. '_Breakfast, concentrate on breakfast._' Impossible to do, because he kept imaging Zevran's tongue…

Alistair took a slice of bread and slathered it with butter. "_Dis_courage. Is what you mean." At the end of the table, Morrigan gave a short bark of laughter.

"Is it? My _intent_ was clear at least, no? Your language holds so many nuances, Alistair, I hardly know aural from oral."

Oghren snorted. "Don't let him fool you, boy. The elf knows exactly–"

Wynne's exasperated, "Please!" spurred Sandor to make his announcement – they'd remain in Seacrest the rest of the week. It had the anticipated effect on morale: Alistair's relief, Sten's glower, Oghren's muttered plea to relocate to The Nugging House.

When he mentioned the baths, Zevran asked if he could take two. "We might share the second, _amante_," he said with a leer, "so as to be more economical."

Before Sandor could respond – or not, as those types of blatantly flirtatious remarks usually left him momentarily at a loss for words while his mind traitorously explored the possibilities – the assassin left his seat and made his way down to the other end of the table, where he appropriated a sausage off Morrigan's plate. He bit into it before she could snatch it back. "You had such a sinful look when you placed this in your mouth, my dear, I had to sample it for myself – but I notice nothing special about the taste. Perhaps the shape is what attracted you, yes?"

"I must admit, I have come to expect better from you, Zevran – tis hardly worthy of your wit to make such an obvious jest."

Glad that things seemed to be returning to what might loosely be classified as normal, Sandor grinned then glanced down at Zevran's plate. It was virtually untouched. The Antivan was jealously protective of the food on it, but rarely did he ever eat more than a mouthful or two from it. Instead, everyone fell victim to his grazing; the mage more so than the others because he didn't tend to object strenuously and a smile bargained Zevran out of any genuine displeasure on his part. '_I wonder if he even realizes he does it._' Sandor suspected that while it might once have been a purely conscious choice on the other elf's part, the behavior was now so ingrained it had been integrated into part of the assassin's façade.

He picked up another piece of bacon and, surreptitiously sticking his hand under the table, fed it to Perro. The mabari greedily devoured it and for good measure, gnawed gently on the elven Warden's fingers before lapping off the grease. The dog's ingratiating whine won him another piece before he finally got around to trying the kedgeree and found it surprisingly good.

A light touch on his shoulder, the caress lasting a few seconds more than necessary to alert him to Zevran's presence and the Antivan climbed back beside him. He placed something near the edge of Sandor's plate, indicating it with a nod of his head. "For your…"

It was the missing milk pitcher. Sandor picked it up and dribbled a few drops into the now tepid tea; he watched as it plumed up in the liquid, turning it a creamy caramel color. Zevran had already turned his attention to Alistair, claiming to have taken his piece of bread because it wasn't buttered correctly, "…and there _must_ be jam, Alistair. Was the Chantry so remiss in your education they did not explain this to you? Bread and butter, but also most assuredly, jam. Here, I will show you."

Hidden behind the mug as he lifted it to his lips, Sandor's smile shamed the storm's end rainbow.

* * *

Author's Note: I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).

Feedback is welcome and encouraged (criticism is just as valued as praise), and thank you **Angry Girl**, for your kind words about my last chapter.


	7. Chastity

Sandor employed a little more mana and the spell wisp brightened, further illuminating the inside of his tent. '_I should be asleep._' But the rain played a natural symphony he had yet to tire of as it hit the taut tan fabric. Weather was still a new experience. The few windows and insular stone walls in the Circle Tower made his former home feel untouched by the elements; even day and night might have gone unnoticed if the lives of the apprentices weren't so regimented. He remembered when he'd passed his Harrowing — anticipating being moved to new quarters — and the disappointment when he found his newly elevated status did not merit a window to the outside world.

Now he could enjoy the rain all he wanted; the prospect of being drenched in the downpour couldn't diminish his enjoyment while he was warm under a blanket and out of the worst. Sandor directed the tiny light upwards, where it hovered near the vertex. There he watched the shadowy drops land and form rivulets which branched to join other tributaries, creating miniature waterways all flowing downhill to the earthen sea.

The sodden squelch of footsteps outside the enclosure alerted him to someone's approach, so when the flap moved aside, Sandor pulled the coarse blanket over his head to retain as much warmth as possible before he heard it fall shut again.

"I trust I have not disturbed your rest, _mago_? You _are_ awake still, are you not?"

Sandor pushed down the cover and sat up. His arms prickled with gooseflesh which he tried to rub away, relying on the friction from the fine blond hair on his arms to warm them back up. Zevran was a water-logged mess — his hair plastered to his skull and his leathers discolored from the deluge outside. "Here, let me get…" and the mage turned, looking for something to offer the assassin to dry off with, so he wouldn't continue to drip inside the tent. Already the moisture the Antivan brought with him caused the interior to smell: the muskiness of sheep from the wetness the wool absorbed.

The nearest thing at hand was one of his robes — the satin and brocade far from an ideal choice — but as he reached for it, Zevran shook his head vigorously. Sandor shielded his face and chest from the spray. His desire to accommodate the other elf evaporated after the impromptu shower, so he did not search for anything that might serve the purpose better. After using the robe to sponge the water from his own skin — although it only served to spread the droplets around so he felt as if he was sweating — he tossed it to Zevran. "Couldn't you have done that in your own tent?"

"Where _I_ sleep? Why would I wish it to smell like wet dog, when yours already does?" Zevran seemed baffled Sandor might object and toweled off his head. He found the robe as inadequate for the purpose as the mage had. Zevran settled for squeezing the water from his hair into it and scrunched the garment into a ball as a means of containment.

"You're smelling sheep now. And Perro isn't in here, as you know." The mabari was permanently banished from Sandor's tent. The elven Warden had discovered the beast was a bully in its sleep, using its superior bulk to push its master out of bed so it could commandeer the most comfortable spot. A few nights waking up shivering, back aching, with nothing more than a tarp underneath him was all it took. Now the dog slept outside or — in weather like this — cajoled its way in with Alistair or Sten.

"Ah, my mistake. Your Ferelden has so many unique animal odors — I still struggle to identify them all." Zevran passed the robe back since it had served its purpose as well as it was able.

Sandor accepted the wadded up clothing and shoved it into a corner to be dealt with later. Then he drew his legs up under the blanket and crossed them so the assassin could sit down. He smoothed one of his eyebrows with his thumb before resting his elbow on his knee; supporting his head by making a fist.

"Was there something you wanted?" Not that there needed to be. Sandor was perfectly content just to stare at the other elf – probably as willing as the Antivan was to be stared at – but he didn't think Zevran had come just for the admiration, especially given the state he was in.

With a cheeky smile, Zevran sat down opposite and removed his boots. "There is always something _I_ want, my Grey Warden."

Zevran undid the braids keeping a good portion of his hair from obscuring his face. Sandor styled his hair in a similar fashion which prompted the comment from Oghren that the two elves were now mirror images of each other.

"But yes, there is something I wish to discuss. It is about the… conversation you had with Wynne." Zevran finished working his fingers through the strands so the ends could begin to dry. "Your voices were raised in such a way… I could not help but overhear, at least in part."

Sandor shut his eyes and reached up to pull on a forelock his newly adopted hairstyle always failed to contain. He knew Zevran wasn't only one who had heard what was said between the two mages, but he might have been surprised if people in Denerim hadn't heard it, "raised voices" being a mild term for shouting. The elven Warden hoped — because it went unremarked — the topic wouldn't be brought up. She had said:

"Love is ultimately selfish. It demands that one be devoted to a single person, who may fully occupy one's mind and heart, to the exclusion of all else. A Grey Warden cannot afford to be selfish. You may be forced to make a choice between saving your love and saving everyone else, and then what would you do?"

Sandor wondered what looking glass he stepped through to find himself in a world where he preferred a discussion about sex over love. He considered pointing out to the older woman that what she heard coming from his tent had _not_ involved Zevran — not physically — and were instead the sounds of his self-gratification long after the other elf had retired to his own tent for the night. He didn't, only because he hadn't expected the conversation to veer off in the direction of his sex life, although none of it was any of her business. '_If I was truly self-indulgent, I would have given her something more to complain about than listening to __**me**__._' Zevran made it clear — were the mage to seek him out for intimacy, he would not be turned away.

The crux of the problem laid elsewhere: being in love (and Sandor was **certain** of his feelings in that regard) with Zevran. Was it egotistical for him to want a relationship? Did his duty to the Grey Wardens preclude affection? Contrary to what Wynne implied, it didn't feel selfish to be concerned with Zevran's happiness. He yearned for something deeper than what the assassin offered him but didn't envision their situation altering so it suited his private fantasies, in which the emotion he felt became mutual. '_He wants to be free and I know freedom doesn't just mean from the Crows. I can't ask him for more._' So, Sandor kept him at arm's length and made no claims on the other elf — out of fear that the sentiment he felt would not or should not be returned. Sometimes though — on those nights longing for the Zevran's company — Sandor wondered why he bothered considering these questions, his body willing but mind striving to protect a heart already surrendered.

Sandor opened his eyes again and met Zevran's own, inhaling the now pungent scent of wet wool and leather. "If what I said… if I overstepped…" His concentration lapsed and the wisp illuminating the tent dimmed significantly. This gave Sandor something else to focus on, so he amplified its power slightly. The shadows it cast made the assassin's exposed skin appear marked with living tattoos, the rain flow keeping them in constant flux.

Zevran's low laughter showed he was mindful of the hour. "You misunderstand me, _mago_. I am not here to chastise you – at least not verbally. I am, in point of fact, flattered you would so… audibly espouse me, unnecessary as it may be. I do not seek our dear Wynne's approval; she may think of me what she wishes."

"So… you've come to help me plot revenge?" Not vindictive by nature, Sandor resented the senior mage broaching the topic with him at all and was — when his mind was not otherwise occupied by the myriad of problems that plagued their group (or by Zevran himself) — trying to conjure up a way to even the score with the woman. So far, the only thing that irritated her was his constant request for tales of griffons, but this had been limited in its satisfaction.

Zevran tapped his thumbnail against his lower lip and rolled his eyes up to gaze at the top of the enclosure. He replied after a moment, "I may have something crafty enough, if your griffon campaign fails to meet with success," which gained him a smirk in reply, Sandor not surprised the other elf had noticed. "But despite the potential for fun, no." The Antivan reached around behind his back and brought forth a package — wrapped in brown paper blotched with raindrops and tied with a string — which he laid on the blanket between them.

Sandor hadn't noticed it when Zevran came in, since he'd been more concerned with staying dry and warm than anything the assassin brought with him.

Curious as to what the parcel might be and how it related to Wynne, he tugged at the twine. He stopped when he noticed the grin on the other elf's face. Zevran tried unconvincingly to readjust his expression into a look of polite interest in the proceedings. The elven Warden spent more than a fair amount of time looking at Zevran though, and he recognized the raised eyebrows. It was his '_I find this very amusing_' face, one he adopted when he was entertained by the actions of those around him, whether or not they were trying to be funny.

'_Nothing I can do but open it and see what's inside._' The loose knot gave way and he unfolded the paper to reveal its contents.

It was a bulbous piece of metal bolted to leather, and on picking it up there seemed far too many loose ends for him to immediately determine what purpose the item was supposed to serve. The cured leather remained stiff to the touch but further along, the straps had been perforated with holes and there was a lock.

"Augh…!" Sandor dropped the belt as if it scalded him and Zevran's chuckle turned to coughs as the assassin tried to regain his composure.

Zevran cleared his throat, "Our dear Wynne seemed primarily concerned with your ability to properly focus whilst in my company. So this…" Zevran picked up the apparatus, dangling it on one finger. "Even she cannot object or imply your attention is elsewhere if you are girded so, for it will prevent such thoughts from being quite so… distracting."

He spread the belt down on the blanket and began to explain its workings. "It is hinged at the bottom, you see?" The screw at the top twisted only partially in and Zevran removed it now. "So the front panel completely covers the…"

'_Does this work, I wonder? Alistair does it all the time when he doesn't want to hear something. La la la. I'm not listening. I can't hear you,'_ Sandor thought fervently. He hadn't covered his ears though, so he wasn't successful in blocking out the Antivan completely.

Zevran was still talking earnestly, "…strap locks through a post in the rear of the waist. This metal ring holds the…" Sandor clasped his hands behind his head; the pose brought his forearms up to his ears, so the last words he heard were, "no touching or feeling" before his world grew blissfully silent. Zevran seemed absorbed in his description and it wasn't until after his mouth stopped moving that Sandor dropped his arms back to his sides.

'_He's enjoying this far too much and even if he offered to put it on me himself, I'm not wearing __**that,**_' he thought, which wasn't precisely being honest. In truth, there'd be no way the belt would fit him properly if it involved Zevran touching him below the waist, even if he were inclined to wear it. Sandor knew exactly what sort of reaction it would cause. The belt would only serve to intensify the current situation, making him even _more_ aware of everything the Antivan did and said. No doubt Zevran knew it too — which was probably the point.

It was a contrived innocence Zevran now adopted. "I seek only to help you, my friend. These urges, they are affecting your judgment and I am concerned only with aiding you in combating them."

Sandor lacked a suitably bland response to erase the mirth in Zevran's expression. The assassin's eyes reflected the light, made it seem as though each contained a white hot coal to account for their brightness. '_How do you outwit the Trickster? You have to use his tools in a way he doesn't expect._'

"Zevran." It was easy to portray embarrassment — it was what Zevran would expect after all. "You didn't hear the entire conversation. Wynne thinks you only have one thing on your mind."

Zevran snorted. "I assure you, had I not the willpower to resist your charms," the hint of a smile never left his lips, "I would don this myself, if I thought my acumen might be in any way impaired." He waved his hand at the device between them.

"Is that something you'd gamble your life on? We've become friends. More than friends," Sandor said. It was true although rarely did either speak so plainly about the nature of their relationship. "And what if you don't even realize what effect it's having?" He baited the assassin with words, a trick he knew the other elf often used to his own advantage.

"Hmm." Zevran placed his left thumb under his chin, drumming his index finger on his upper lip. "Perhaps you are correct. Very well, I accept your wager." His eyes narrowed; the small change in facial expression caused the look on his face to go from amused to shrewd. "We hazard to see who wears this, yes?" He lifted the belt and set it to the side, out of the way.

"Yes." The immediate affirmation caused Zevran to raise one eyebrow then rake a hand through his hair.

'_The_ _battle won but not the war._' He lacked the time to think this far ahead; Sandor's only thought was to put the assassin off his footing, which seemed to have worked.

Zevran's posture relaxed into the easy languidness he perpetually exuded, but the mage recognized the change in bearing, indicating the Antivan was puzzling through something in his head.

"What game shall it be then, my Grey Warden?" Zevran straightened his arms and leaned back, palms flat on the bedding, as he stretched out his legs. "Are you certain you wish to make this bet?" His comment was punctuated by a flash of lightning then a rumble of thunder. "Even the weather holds an ominous portent. Or perhaps it is auspicious. I imagine it depends on who more firmly believes they will emerge the winner."

"I'm sure." Since the assassin offered him first choice of contest, Sandor thought about his strengths and decided to see if his luck held. "How about Gry? It's a word game with only one rule, if you've never heard of it." It wasn't so much a game as it was a riddle, asking the participants to name a word other than angry or hungry that ended in the letters '_gry_.' The game didn't specify the order the letters had to be in — it relied on the person who heard the question to interpret the game as it was described. It was also hopeless; there were no other words ending as the first two did. Other tricks could go along with the presentation but the mage opted for straightforward — anything else might cue Zevran in to what he was doing.

"I think not. I would prefer something I am at least familiar with. After all, how do I know you will not make up arbitrary rules designed to see me fail from the start?" Zevran reached up, leaning on one hand, to flick the canvas with a finger — the pattern of shadows in the room changed. "Something simple. Dice? A few rolls and the decision left up to fate. I happen to have a pair, in my tent."

Sandor shook his head. "You'll cheat." Any dice Zevran possessed would undoubtedly be fixed to favor him, or he would know how to manipulate them so they would. Just as the Antivan had sensed the elven Warden's first suggestion might be a trap set to ensnare him, Sandor could tell Zevran meant to do likewise.

Given the assassin's familiarity with sleight of hand, Sandor knew the next idea might not fall in his favor. "Nim? It's a math…" but Zevran cut him off before he could continue.

"I was never very good with figures. I would have made a _terrible_ merchant." He waved the idea away like a bothersome fly. "With enough blank vellum we could fashion ourselves a deck of cards? I describe for you the characters, and we might play Wicked Grace." He named a card game Sandor was only passing familiar with.

A negation for the same reason as the first, "Cheat."

Zevran sighed, his exhalation strong enough Sandor could feel the warmth of the other elf's breath against his chest. "I am hurt you do not trust me. Are we not past this? Tsk. I thought we were."

'_Play-acting wounded pride,_' and they both knew it. Sandor felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "I trust you want to win."

Zevran chuckled, his attempted deception revealed. "If you are not ___cheating_, you are not ___trying_. It seems we are at an impasse. We have limited resources with which to work. We could spar. No armor, no weapons, no magic, no clothing... wearing nothing but our sweat?"

"And you think I'm the one who should be wearing the belt?"

The two compromised and settled on a game of their own invention — one Sandor hoped still lent him the advantage. They would exchange words, with a coin toss to decide who would take the lead, which the assassin won. Zevran would say a word, and the mage was required to name the opposite or as close an approximation as he was able. Too long a delay in response from either determined the winner.

The start was simple enough. Zevran began by saying 'dark' and Sandor replied with 'light.' Moon, sun, earth, sky, fire and water. It went on like this for some time, the naming of things mundane and the two seemed on par with one another. There were even humorous interjections of the names of their companions. Zevran said 'drunk' and Sandor answered 'Oghren,' before following up with 'sober.' When the Antivan mentioned 'Alistair', the elven Warden's logical response was 'Morrigan' and then it was some time before either elf could continue, both taken with fits of suppressed laughter.

Zevran's turn again. "Quiet."

"Loud."

"Cold."

"Hot." The combined body heat of the two elves raised the temperature in the enclosure sufficiently; Sandor had been thinking it without needing the prompting opposite and considered asking Zevran —who was nearest the entrance — to open the flap to let in some fresher air. The interior had grown distinctly humid. He'd probably take a chill from it though, since he was bare from the waist up.

"Clothed."

Sandor realized Zevran just upped the ante of their game but answered as quickly as he had with the other words. "Naked." He wished now he'd lit a lantern instead of maintaining the mote of light hovering near the roof. While his verbal answer hadn't given him away, the wisp dimmed momentarily because his attention to it wavered.

The lapse hadn't gone unnoticed by the assassin; the elven Warden had seen his eyes flicker upwards for just a moment before looking back at him. "Back."

"Front."

"Retreat."

"Advance."

Zevran sat up straight, "If you insist." He shifted his position — now on all fours — and began moving forward. It was like watching a predator stalk and Sandor knew he had nowhere to withdraw to, unless going backwards about a foot constituted escape. "Need."

Sandor gave the answer without thought. "Want." He was drawn in by those golden eyes.

Zevran halted his progress and blinked, temporarily severing the bond between them. "That, my friend, is not an opposite. Try again. Your time grows short."

Sandor floundered but finally exclaimed, "Have." Zevran inclined his head a fraction, an indication the answer was acceptable.

"Push."

"Pull."

Zevran's movements were lazy but measured; he had crossed about a quarter of the distance between them now. He grasped and dragged the blanket down, away, out of Sandor's field of vision which narrowed to the Antivan and nothing else. "Empty."

"Full."

"Sword."

Again, Sandor's mind blanked. Zevran smirked when he sensed victory: not tight-lipped but with his mouth slightly open, inviting.

The mage rallied, "Sheath." The connotation of choices presented was not lost on him. Even without that specific pairing of words, Sandor's body had already reacted to Zevran's proximity, too long denied this intimate closeness.

"Leave."

"Come." An invitation but Zevran needed no further encouragement.

"In."

"Out." The assassin was still dressed in his leathers, the fastenings beyond Sandor's reach until Zevran moved further upward but the mage was already considering how long it might take to undo every buckle and binding.

"Give."

A plea, "Take." Zevran lowered his face to the mage's stomach. Sandor groaned as Zevran's tongue touched his flesh; felt a tremor start at the base of his spine work its way upward. He clamped down on the sound by biting his lower lip. Sandor leaned back on his hands and now his arms began to tremble.

Zevran lifted his head, murmuring, "Stop." The game went on, although it was two they played now — or only one, but with different rules.

"Go." No longer able to remain upright, Sandor laid back. He traced the other elf's tattoo with his fingertips before cupping Zevran's chin to draw him away from his skin. His desire held in check for months, he was afraid of what might happen if he allowed Zevran to continue his ministrations.

Their eyes met. Sandor hoped Zevran understood why he needed him to halt what he'd been doing, when the mage's body sent such a clear signal to proceed.

"Pain."

The light above them extinguished then blazed back to life. "Pleasure." Sandor did not want this to happen in the dark; wanted to see clearly every expression on the other elf's face. He wanted to hear his cries when they joined; feel Zevran inside him.

"Soft."

"Hard."

"Indeed." Zevran gave a wicked smile and hooked the loose trousers the elven Warden wore to bed with his right hand, pulling one side down past the mage's hips to expose him. He caressed the mage's length but the embrace proved too much and — unable to help himself — Sandor thrust into the singular stroking motion with another moan. His cry became a gasp as he climaxed; the relief so intense it bordered on painful.

It left him flushed, breathless – and mortified. '_No. No._' His silent thoughts spilled out through his lips, "No, oh Maker, no." The moment of ecstasy dwindled, dwarfed by the monumental feeling of embarrassment. The jokes about his inability to control himself in Zevran's presence rang loudly in his ears, having proved true in the most shameful way possible.

The warmth of his release spread across his stomach. In desperation, he propped himself up on one elbow and grabbed the discarded robe, still damp from its use as a towel. He rubbed, trying to remove the offending stain from his skin. "I'm sorry. I couldn't help…" he was babbling when all he wanted to do was keep his mouth closed. No excuse he made would erase what happened.

Zevran's hand caught his wrist and stilled his movement. Sandor couldn't look at the other elf and kept his eyes downcast. He was glad the robe concealed his nudity because his pants remained where the assassin pulled them down, below the hips.

"It is nothing you need be sorry for, _mago_. Such a reaction is natural when a sensation proves pleasurable."

Zevran's tone was meant to soothe, but it only heightened the mage's misery. "This wasn't supposed to happen. We shouldn't have done this."

"You prefer to have it occur while alone?" Zevran did not let go of his wrist and Sandor fought the urge to wrench free but the Antivan still straddled him. "It is a small campsite we occupy each night, _amante_, and privacy is but an illusion." Zevran sighed. "If you must berate yourself, let it be for the right reason. This need be no difficult thing. Do you not tire of the _ballos syrtos_ we dance?"

Sandor wasn't sure what the phrase meant but understood the intent – Zevran was just as frustrated as he was. He could see the tension in the other elf's posture; Zevran was rarely still but beyond taking hold of the mage's wrist, he hadn't moved. Worse, he was right. There was no reason they could not continue – the setback **was** only temporary – but the thought of another humiliating performance made Sandor's stomach churn.

When he tried to disentangle himself from Zevran's grip, the assassin did not take the rebuff lightly. He loosed Sandor's wrist and pinioned him down at the shoulders; the act forced the mage to look up at him. "We enjoy each other's company, yes?" Sandor nodded mutely in reply. "So what reason could there be for not exploring the more carnal delights – besides your penchant to overanalyze every situation we encounter?"

Sandor latched onto the last part of what Zevran said; the guilt over his lack of restraint still too disgraceful to face. "Maybe I **do** think too much, but someone has to. I don't see anyone else stepping up to make decisions. What's worse, half the time I feel like more of a nursemaid than a leader, trying to sort through petty arguments and prejudices - and there's never a reprieve. Because after the day is done, I get to lie awake wondering how many people died because of my stupidity. When was the last time you had to suffer the consequences of your actions?"

Zevran bristled. "When my bid on this contract was accepted and I left Antiva."

Using his growing irritation as an outlet to vent his feelings, Sandor snapped back, "And how's that working out for you - being spared by a benevolent mark who then helps you escape from the Crows? Your words, not mine."

Zevran abruptly released him and backed away, crouched on the balls of his feet. The two stared sullenly at each other. Sandor was the first to look away. "I need some air." He didn't want to argue with Zevran – further hostilities if their conversation continued seemed inevitable.

As he got to his feet, Sandor received another agonizing reminder of how he'd ruined their evening. When he stood, the robe covering him fell away; he had forgotten to pull his trousers back up. With as much dignity as he could muster, he tugged his pants back into place and fled the tent.

Outside, the downpour continued. The mage took a few steps away from the enclosure. The mud squelched up between his bare toes and Sandor tilted his face up to the sky; the chilly drops cooled his overheated skin. Surreptitiously, he swiped a hand over his stomach, to ensure the rainwater accomplished the task his robe failed to – the removal of any leftover traces of his arousal.

He wasn't surprised when he felt a hand on his shoulder a few minutes later. "You never know when to let it go, do you?" He took another step forward and the assassin's hand slid from his shoulder.

Another time, the words would have sounded good-natured. "That phrase might even become my epitaph one day." Sandor took a few more steps and suddenly Zevran was in front of him, blocking his way as a means to force a confrontation. "Do not think you know all there is to know about my life in Antiva and the circumstances that led to my coming to Ferelden, my friend."

"Well, that's the point, isn't it? You dole out truth in small doses, as if anything you say might turn me against you – when you answer questions at all." The barb was cruel and even as he said it, Sandor recognized how unfair he was being in taking his own self-consciousness over his conduct out on the other elf.

"I do not think you should throw stones, Grey Warden. If we are to compare our histories, you know far more of me than I know of you. Perhaps some truths are better left unspoken?"

'_How could I let everything go so wrong?_' Sandor was ready to admit defeat; capitulate and declare Zevran the victor if it meant he could be left in peace to castigate himself. "I don't know what you want me to say."

Zevran's face was set into hard lines the elven Warden had seen only once before – during the assassin's initial ambush of their group outside the Brecilian Forest. He used the same icy voice now, as then, "Extend to me a courtesy and provide an explanation of your behavior. Honesty would be favorable."

'_Because I don't know if it's safe to love you. But I want to protect you – protect us both – if it isn't._' Instead, Sandor muttered, "You wouldn't understand."

"You give me no opportunity to do so. You say I would not understand your reasons yet refuse to give any so I might at least try. Am I simply not asking you the correct questions?" Zevran's stance shifted, as if prepared to brace against an assault. "Do you think an assassin would not understand the concept of duty? Or does your status prevent you from consorting with the son of a whore?"

Sandor's mouth dropped open as he stood there, aghast. The allegation appalled him but he spared no time to consider where Zevran might have gotten the idea from, in his haste to contradict the charge. "Why would you even say that? I l–" He was about to divulge everything – the shock of what Zevran implied enough to overcome his mental safeguards – but the Antivan interrupted him before he could finish.

"Unless it **is** you and not me and your failure here tonight is indicative of how further relations might proceed?"

As soon as the sentence was uttered, the expression on Zevran's face showed he regretted saying it. "_Mago_, no, I am sorry, I did not mean–" but the damage was done.

Sandor's mouth snapped shut and he ground his teeth together so roughly his jaw began to ache. He reached out and grasped Zevran's forearm, sketched onto his bare skin a rough approximation of an arrow. The partial glyph was scaled down to match the mage's intent of a shove. Caught off guard, Zevran stumbled backwards and fell to the ground. "I know what you meant." He found it difficult to continue to breathe normally – each inhalation felt like it burned.

Sandor dropped to one knee and drew another half-formed symbol of a circle on Zevran's chest to hold him in place. The mage would never triumph over the assassin in a contest of strength but he didn't need to rely on physical prowess to accomplish his goal. The firm but unrelenting pressure would last half a minute, allowing plenty of time for him to say what he wanted. Zevran asked for the truth and there were so many to choose from.

He wasn't sure how much would be heard over the storm, but he wasn't going to yell despite being perilously close to doing so. "Years," Sandor said. "It's been years since anyone's touched me. The other elves in the Tower wanted nothing to do with me and the humans…" He didn't think it would be fair to depict all his former lovers in the same light as his last; at the same time, Sandor didn't want to go back and examine each relationship more closely, afraid of what he might discover in retrospect. "I gave up hope. I grew accustomed to being alone." The admission boiled the acid already bubbling in his belly. "You, better than anyone, can understand that – what a person can tolerate when there are no other options."

Sandor paused to wipe a hand across his face, brushing the rainwater away. "If you want to think of yourself as a whore – peddle your flesh to someone else." He loved the rain but it was tainted now, associated with another painful memory he knew he'd sooner forget but would be unable to. "You keep saying you're glad to be free of the Crows – but are you really free of them if you continue to degrade yourself by acting as if you're worthless? Maybe to them you were, but they're not **me**."

It was rage initially that fueled him but the water pelting against his bare skin tempered it; now all he felt was cold.

"I must have done something to make you feel obligated… You don't have to touch me, Zevran. I'd value your friendship just as much as I ever did. I just wanted…" Sandor ran a hand through his hair and slicked it back. His mind was a tangle and he couldn't finish the thought; he was out of words.

He was slow to regain his feet; the temperature made his muscles feel stiff and the outburst drained him of emotion. Sandor took a step backwards and almost fell down; the slippery mud made his footing unstable. He wanted to offer a hand to Zevran, to aid him in standing and so reinforce his statement about friendship. Instead he stood there and stared helplessly down at the other elf. '_You told me once I was good at fixing things that are broken – but I don't know how to fix this._'

Zevran's hooded gaze gave away nothing of what he might be thinking but his silence spoke volumes to the mage. '_He's probably afraid of me now, just like everyone else._' He had used magic against the Antivan and it sickened him, his usual care abandoned in a fit of temper.

Alistair's voice rang out, loud enough to be heard above the torrent and enough to cause Sandor to start from the unexpected sound. "What in Andraste's name is going on out here?"

Sandor looked over to where he could see the templar's head poked out of his tent, searching for the source of the disturbance and called back, "I was having a dream, is all, Alistair. I've woken up from it now. I'm sorry."

Alistair's interruption enabled the excuse for his escape. Without looking back at Zevran, Sandor took the few steps back to his tent and climbed inside. Sitting down heavily, he peeled off his clothes and used a wet pant leg to wipe the dirt off his hands and feet. The cold felt as if it penetrated through his skin and into his bones, even once he was under his blanket. Shivering, he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the creeping exhaustion he felt _–_ the rain's rhapsody turned into a requiem.

* * *

Author's Note: I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).

S, Z and I thank you for taking the time to read this chapter. If you're so inclined, feel free to review (a critique is just as valued as praise), but if you'd rather spend your time doing something more entertaining, I'd recommend you read the stories by **Tarante11a **and **jenovan**. Their work is brilliant and it is due in no small part to them any of Sandor and Zevran's story ever again saw the light of day. Both have been instrumental with their encouragement and advice (I am allowed to rest my head on their bosoms when I cry about their edits so it all works out). Their stories are what mine aspires to be. Hopefully I'll improve over time so their redlining is less onerous.


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